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6
WHEN VALMOND CAME
TO PONTIAC
WHEN VALMOND CAME
TO PONTIAC
THE STORY OF A LOST NAPOLEON
BY
GILBERT PARKER
CHICAGO
STONE (St* KIMBALL
MDCCCXCV
IRRSB!
97571
COPYRIGHT 1895
BY STONE & KIMBALL
TO
MRS. WILSON MARSHALL
VALMOND*S
BEST FRIEND
AND MY
COMRADE
IN HIS
FORTUNES
"Oh, withered 's. the garland of the war;
The soldier's poll is broken ! "
when Valmond Came
To Pontiac
THE STORY OF A LOST NAPOLEON
CHAPTER I
O.
'N one cornet stood the house of Monsieur
Garon t! avocat ; on another, the shop of the Lit-
tle Chemist ; on another, the office of Medallion
the auctioneer ; and on the last, the Hotel Louis
Quinze. The chief characteristics of Monsieur
Caron's house were its brass door-knobs, and the
verdant luxuriance of the vines that climbed its
sides ; of the Little Chemist's shop, the perfect
whiteness of the building, the rolls of sober wall-
paper, and the bottles of cole :d water in the
shop windows ; of Medallion's, the stoop that sur-
rounded three sides of the building, and the
notices of sales tacked up, pasted up, on the
front ; of the Hotel Louis Quinze, the deep dormer
windows, its solid timbers, and the veranda that
gave its front distinction — for this veranda had
been the pride of several generations of landlords.
lo
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
and its heavy carving and bulky grace were worth
even more admiration than Pontiac gave to it.
The square which the two roads and the four
corners made was, on week-days, the rendezvous
of Pontiac, and the whole parish ; on Sunday
mornings the rendezvous was shifted to the large
church on the hillside, beside which was the house
of the Cur€, Monsieur Fabre. Travelling towards
the south out of the silken haze of a midsummer
day, you would come in time to the hills of Maine ;
north, to the city of Quebec and the River St.
Lawrence ; east, to the ocean ; and west, to the
Great Lakes and the land of the English. Over
this bright province Britain raised her flag, but
only Medallion and a few others loved it for its
own sake, or saluted it in the English tongue.
In the drab velvet dust of these four corners,
were gathered, one night of July a generation ago,
the children of the village and many of their
elders. AD the events of that epoch were dated
from the evening of this day. Another day of
note the parish cherished, but it was merely a
grave fulfilment of the first.
Upon the veranda-stoop of the Louis Quinze
stood a man of apparently about twenty-eight
years of age. When you came to study him close-
ly, some sense of time and experience in his look
told you that he might be thirty-eight, though his
few gray hairs seemed but to emphasize a certain
youthfulness in him. His eye was full, singularly
clear, almost benign ; at one moment it gave the
I
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
II
1
I
impression of resolution, at another it suggested
the wayward abstraction of the dreamer. He was
well-figured, with a hand of peculiar whiteness,
suggesting in its breadth more the man of action
than of meditation. But it was a contradiction,
for as you saw it rise and fall, you were struck by
its dramatic delicacy ; as it rested on the railing
of the veranda, by its latent power. You faced
incongruity everywhere. His dress was bizarre,
his face almost classical, the brow clear and
strong, the profile good to the mouth, where there
showed a combination of sensuousness and adven-
ture. Yet in the face there was an elusive sad-
ness, strangely out of keeping with the long linen
coat, frilled shirt, the flowered waistcoat, lavender
trousers, boots of enamelled leather, and straw hat
with white linen streamers. It was a whimsical
picture.
At the moment that the Cur^ and Medallion
the auctioneer came down the street together
towards the Louis Quinze, talking amiably, this
singular gentleman was throwing out hot pennies,
with a large spoon, from a tray in his hand, call-
ing on the children to gather them, in French
which was not the French of Pontiac — or Quebec ;
and this fact the Cur(5 was quick to detect, as
Monsieur Garon the avocat, standing on the out-
skirts of the crowd, had done some moments
before. The stranger seemed only conscious of
his act of liberality and the children before him.
There was a naturalness in his enjoyment which
12
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
was almost boy-like ; a naive sort of exultation
seemed to possess him.
He laughed softly to see the children toss the
pennies from hand to hand, blowing to cool them ;
the riotous yet half-timorous scramble for them,
and burnt fingers thrust into hot blithe mouths.
And when he saw a fat little lad of five crowded
out of the way by his elders, he stepped down
with a quick word of sympathy, put a half dozen
pennies in the child's pocket, snatched him up and
kissed him, and then returned to the veranda.where
were gathered the landlord, the miller, and Mon-
sieur De la Riviere the young Seigneur. But the
most intent spectator of the scene was Parpon
the dwarf, who sat grotesquely crouched upon the
wide ledge of a window.
Tray after tray of pennies was brought out and
emptied, till at last the stranger paused, handed
the spoon to the landlord, drew out a fine white
handkerchief, dusted his fingers, standing silent
for a moment, and smiling upon the crowd.
It was at this point that some young villager
called, in profuse compliment, "Three cheers for
the Prince ! "
The stranger threw an accent of pose into his
manner, his eye lighted, his chin came up, he
dropped one hand negligently on his hip, and
waved the other in acknowledgment. Presently
he beckoned, and from the hotel were brought
out four great pitchers of wine and a dozen tin
cups, and sending the gar^on around with one,
4
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
13
the landlord with another, he motioned Parpon
the dwarf to bear a hand. Parpon shot out a
quick, half-resentful look at him, but meeting a
warm, friendly eye, he took the pitcher and went
among the elders, while the stranger himself
courteously drank with the young men of the
village, who, like many wiser folk, thus yielded to
the charm of mystery. To every one he said a
hearty thing, and sometimes touched his greeting
off with a bit of poetry or a rhetorical phrase.
These dramatic extravagances served him well,
for he was among a race of story-tellers and
crude poets.
Parpon, uncouth and furtive, moved through
the crowd, dispensing as much irony as wine :
" Three bucks we come to a pretty inn,
' Hostess,' say we, ' have you red wine?'
Brave ! Brave !
* Hostess,* say we, ' have you red wine ?'
Brave ment !
Our feet are sore and our crops are dry,
Bravement ! "
This he hummed to Monsieur Garon the avo-
cat, in a tone all silver, for he had that one gift
of Heaven as recompense for his deformity, — his
long arms, big head, and short stature, — a voice
which gave you a shiver of delight and pain all
at once. It had in it mystery and the incompre-
hensible. This drinking song, lilted just above
his breath, touched some antique memory in the
^
14
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
It
avocat, and he nodded kindly at the dwarf, though
he refused the wine.
" Ah, M'sieu' le Cur^," said Parpon, ducking
his head to avoid the hand that Medallion would
have laid on it, " we're going to be somebody
now in Pontiac, bless the Lord ! We're simple
folk, but we're not neglected. He wears a king's
ribbon on his breast, M'sieu' le Cur^ ! "
This was true. Fastened by a gold bar to the
stranger's breast was the crimson ribbon of an
order.
The Cur6 smiled at Parpon's words, and looked
curiously and gravely at the stranger. Tall Me-
dallion, the auctioneer, took a glass of the wine,
and lifting it, said: "Who shall I drink to, Par-
pon, my dear ? What is he ? "
" Ten to one, a dauphin or a fool," answered
Parpon with a laugh like the note of an organ.
"Drink to both, long legs." Then he trotted
away to the Little Chemist.
" Hush, my brother," said he, and he drew the
other's ear down to his mouth. "Now there'll
be plenty of work for you. We're going to be gay
in Pontiac. We'll come to you with our spoiled
stomachs."
He edged round the circle, and back to where the
miller his master, and the young Seigneur stood.
"Make more fine flour, old man," said he to
the miller ; " pSt^s are the thing now." Then, to
Monsieur De la Riviere : " There's nothing like
hot pennies and wine to make the world love you.
5'
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 1 5
But it's too late, too late for my young Seigneur ! "
he added in mockery, and again he began to hum
in a sort of amiable derision:
"My little tender heart,
O gai, vive le rot !
My little tender heart,
O gat, zdve le roi /
'Tis for a grand baron,
Vive le roi, la reine;
'Tis for a grand baron,
Vive Napoleon ! "
With the last two lines the words swelled out far
louder than was the dwarf's intention, for few save
Medallion and Monsieur De la Riviere had ever
heard him sing. His concert house was the Rock
of Red Pigeons, his favorite haunt, his other home,
where, it was said, he met the Little Good Folk
of the Scarlet Hills, and had gay hours with them.
And this was a matter of awe to the timid /ta6i-
tiUltS.
At the words " Vive Napoleon ! "a hand touched
him on the shoulder. He turned and saw the
stranger looking at him intently, his eyes alight.
" Sing it," he said softly, yet with an air of com-
mand. Parpon hesitated, shrank back.
"Sing it," he persisted, and the request was
taken up by others, till Parpon's face flushed with
a sort of pleasurable defiance. The stranger
stooped and whispered something in his ear.
There was a moment's pause, in which the dwarf
i6
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
\
looked into the other's eyes with an intense
curiosity, or incredulity — and then Medallion
lifted the little man onto the railing of the veranda,
and over the heads and into the hearts of the
people there passed, in a divine voice, a song
known to many, yet coming as a new revelation
to them all.
" My mother promised it,
O gai, vive Ic roi !
My mother promised it,
O gai, vive Ic roi !
To a gentleman of the king,
Vive le roi, hi reine ;
To a gentleman of the king,
Vive A'apolt'on ! "
This was chanted lightly, airily, with a sweet-
ness almost absurd, coming as it did from so
uncouth a musician. The last verses had a touch
of pathos, droll yet searching :
" Oh, say, where goes your love,
O gai, vive le roi?
Oh, say, where goes your love,
O gai, vive le roi ?
He rides on a white horse,
Vive le roi, la reine ;
He wears a silver sword,
Vive Napoleon !
" Oh, grand to the war he goes,
O gai, vive le roi !
Oh, grand to the war he goes,
O gai, vive le roi !
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
17
Gold and silver he will bring,
Vhr Ic roi, la rcitic ;
And eke the daughter of a king —
I'ii'f A'ii/>(>/i'on ! "
The crowd, women and men, youths and maid-
ens, enthusiastically repeated again and again the
)a£t lines and the refrain, "Vive le rot, la reine !
Vive Napoleon ! "
Meanwhile the stranger stood, now looking at
the singer with eager eyes, now searching the
faces of the people, keen to see the effect upon
them. His glance found the Cur^, the avocat, and
the auctioneer, and his eyes steadied successively
to Medallion's humorous look, to the Curb's puzzled
questioning, to the avocat's birdlike curiosity. It
was plain they were not antagonistic (why should
they be ?) ; and he — was there any reason why he
should care whether or no they were for him or
against him ?
True, he had entered the village in the dead of
night, with much luggage and many packages,
had roused the people at the Louis Quinze, the
driver who had brought him departing gayly, be-
fore daybreak, because of the gifts of gold given
him above his wage. True, this singular gentle-
man had taken three rooms in the little hotel,
had paid the landlord in advance, and had then
gone to bed, leaving word that he was not to be
waked till three o'clock the next afternoon. True,
the landlord could not by any hint or indirection
discover from whence this midnight visitor came.
2
i8
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
But if a gentleman paid his way, and was gener-
ous and polite, and minded his own business,
wherefore should people busy themselves about
him ? When he appeared on the veranda of
the inn with the hot pennies, not a half dozen
people in the village had known aught of his pres-
ence in Pontiac. The children came first to
scorch their fingers and fill their pockets, and
after them the idle young men, and the habitants
in general.
The song done, the stranger, having shaken
Parpon by the hand, and again whispered in his
ear, stepped forward. The last light of the set-
ting sun was reflected from the red roof of the
Little Chemist's shop, upon the quaint figure and
eloquent face, which had in it something of the
gentleman, something of the comedian. The alert
Medallion himself did not realize the comedian in
it, till the white hand was waved grandiloquently
over the heads of the crowd. Then something in
the gesture corresponded with something in the
face, and the auctioneer had a nut which he could
not crack for many a day. The voice was mu-
sical,— as fine in speaking almost as the dwarf's
in singing, — and the attention of the children was
caught by the warm, vibrating tones. He ad-
dressed himself to them.
"My children," he said, "my name is — Val-
mond ! We have begun well ; let us be better
friends. I have come from far off to be one of
you, to stay with you for awhile — who knows how
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
19
long — how long?" He placed a finger medita-
tively on his lips, sending a sort of mystery into
his look and bearing. " You are French, and so
am I. You are playing on the shores of life, and
so am I. You are beginning to think and dream,
and so am I. We are only children till we begin
to make our dreams our life. So I am one with
you, for only now do I step from dream to action.
My children, you shall be my brothers, and to-
gether we will sow the seed of action and reap
the grain ; we will make a happy garden of flowers,
and violets shall bloom everywhere out of our
dream, — everywhere. Violets, my children, pluck
the wild violets, and bring them to me, and I will
give you silver for them, and I will love you.
Never forget," he added with a swelling voice,
"that you owe your first duty to your mothers,
and afterward to your country, and to the spirit
of France. I see afar " — he looked toward the set-
ting sun, and stretched out his arm dramatically,
yet such was the impressiveness of his voice and
person that not even the young Seigneur or Medal-
lion smiled, — " I see afar," he repeated, " the glory
of our dreams fulfilled, after toil, and struggle, and
loss ; and I call upon you now to unfurl the white
banner of justice, and liberty, and the restoration ! "
The good women who listened guessed little of
what he meant by the fantastic sermon ; but they
wiped their eyes in sympathy, and gathered their
children to them, and said, " Poor gentleman,
poor gentleman ! " and took him instantly to their
30
WHEN VALMONI) CAME TO I'ONTIAC
hearts. The men were mystified, hut wine and
rhetoric had fired them, and they cheered him
— no one tcnevv why. The Curd, as he turned to
leave, with Monsieur Garon, shook his head in
bewilderment ; but even he did not smile, for the
man's elociuence had impressed him. And more
than once he looked back at the dispersing crowd
and the picturesque figure posing on the veranda.
The avocat was thinking deeply, and as in the
dusk he left the Curd at his own door, all t^^t he
ventured was: " Singular, a most singular person! "
" We shall see, we shall see," said the Curd, ab-
stractedly, and they said good-night. Medallion
joined the Little Chemist in his shop door, and
watched the habitants scatter, till only Parpon
and the stranger were left. Presently these two
faced each other, and, without a word, passed into
the hotel together.
" H'm, h'm," said Medallion into space, drum-
ming the door-jamb with his finger >, " which is it,
my Parpon — a dauphin, or a fool ? "
He and the Little Chemist talked long, their
eyes upon the window opposite, inside which Mon-
sieur Valmond and the dwarf were talking. Up
the dusty street wandered fitfully the refrain :
*' To a gentleman of the king,
Vive NiXpoleon ! "
And once they dimly saw Monsieur Valmond
come to the open window and stretch out his hand,
as if in greeting to the song and the singer.
wawni- I n ^n'*f*'
CHAPTER II
1 HIS all happened on a Tuesday, and on
Wednesday, and for several days, Valmond went
about making friends. It was easy to do this, for his
pockets were always full of pennies and silverpieces,
and he gave them liberally to the children and to
the poor, though, indeed, there were few suffering
poor in Pontiac. All had food enough to keep
them from misery, though often it got no further
than sour milk and bread, with a dash of sugar in it
of Sundays. As for homes, every man and woman
had a house of a kind, with its low projecting roof
and dormer windows, according to the ability and
prosperity of the owner. These houses were white-
washed or painted white, and had double glass in
winter, according to the same measure. There
was no question of warmth, for in snowtime every
house was banked up with earth above the founda-
tions, the cracks and intersections of windows and
doors were filled with cloth from the village looms,
and wood was for the chopping far and near.
Within these air-tight cubes the simple folk baked,
and were happy, content if now and then the house-
wife opened the one pane of glass which hung on
a hinge, or the slit in the sash, to let in the cold
air. The occasional opening of the outer door to
93
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO TONTIAC
f
admit some one, as a rule, sufTiced, for out rushed
the hot blast, and in came the dry frosty air to
brace to their tasks the story-teller and singer.
In summer the little fields were broken with
wooden ploughs, and there was the limb of a tree
for harrow, the sickle and scythe and Hail to do
their office in due course ; and if the man were
well-to-do, he swung the cradle in his rye and
wheat, rejoicing in the sweep of the knife and the
fulness of the swathe. Then, too, there was the
driving of the rivers, when the young men ran
the logs from the backwoods to the great mills
near and far : red-shirted, sashed, knee-booted,
with rings in their ears and wide hats on their
heads, and a song in their mouths, breaking a jam,
or steering a crib or raft down the rapids. And
the vpyageur also, who brought furs out of the
North down the great lakes, came home again to
Pontiac, singing in his patois :
" A'ous avons pas si Ic bois^
Nous soninis a la rive ! "
Or, as he went forth :
" Le dieu du jour s'auance ;
Amis, les vents sont doux j
Berces par VcspC'rance,
Par ions, emharquons-vous
A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a ! "
And, as we know, it was summer when Val-
mond came to Pontiac. The river-drivers were
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
23
Val-
were
just beginning to return, and by and by the flax
swini^eing would commence in the little secluded
valley by the river, and one would see the bright
sickle flashing across the gold and green area, and
all the pleasant furniture of summer set fo/th in
pride by the Mother of the House whom we call
Nature.
Valmond was alive to it all, almost too alive,
for at first the flamboyancy of his spirit touchetl
him off with melodrama. Yet, on the whole, he
seemed more natural than involved or obscure.
His love for children was real, his politeness to
women spontaneou He was seen to carry the
load of old Madame D^gardy up the hill, and
place it at her own door. He also had offered
her a pinch of snuff, which she acknowledged by
gravely offering a pinch of her own, from a dirty
twist of brown paj^er.
One day he sprang over a fence, took from the
hands of cocjuettish itlise Malboir an axe, and
split the knot which she in vain had tried to break.
Not satisfied with this, he piled full of wood the
stone oven outside the house, and carried water
for her from the spring. This came from natural
kindness, for he did not see the tempting look she
gave him, nor the invitation in her eye, as he
turned to leave her. He merely asked her name.
But after he had gone, as though he had for-
gotten, or remembered, something, he leaped the
fence again, came up to her with an air of half-
abstraction, half-courtesy, took both her hands in
24
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
I
his, and before she could recover herself, kissed
her on the cheeks in a paternal sort of way, say-
ing-, " Adieu, my child ! " and left her.
The act had condescension in it ; yet, too, some-
thing unconsciously simple and primitive. Parpon
the dwarf, who that moment perched himself on
the fence, could not decide which Valmond was
just then — dauphin, or fool.
Valmond did not see the little man, but swung
away down the dusty road, reciting to himself
couplets from Lc Viciix Drapcau.
" Oh, come my fla^, come hope of mine,
And thou shalt dry these fruitless tears ; "
and apparently without any connection, he passed
complacently to an entirely different song :
" She loved to laugh, she loved to drink,
I bought her jewels fine."
Then he added with a suddenness which seemed
to astound himself — for afterwards he looked round
quickly, as if to see if he had been heard — " filise
Malboir — h'm ! a pretty name, Elise ; but Mal-
boir — tush ! it should be Malbarre ; the differ-
ence between Lombardy cider and wine of the
Empire."
Parpon, left behind, sat on the fence with his
legs drawn up to his chin, looking at Elise, till
she turned and caught the provoking light of his
eye. She flushed, then was cool again, for she
\
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 25
^
i
was put upon her mettle by the suggestion of his
glance.
" Come, lazy-bones," she said, " come fetch me
currants from the garden."
"Come, mocking-bird," answered he, "come
peck me on the cheek."
She tossed her head, and struck straight home.
"It isn't a game of pass it on from gentleman to
beetle."
" You think he's a gentleman ? " he asked.
" As sure as I think you're a beetle."
He laughed, took off his cap, and patted himself
on the head. "Parpon, Parpon ! " said he, "if
Jean Malboir could see you now, he'd put his foot
on you and crush you — dirty beetle ! "
At the mention of her father's name a change
passed over £lise, for this same Parpon, when all
men else were afraid, had saved Jean Malboir's
life at a log chute in the hills. When he died,
Parpon was nearer to him than the priest, and he
loved to hear the dwarf chant his wild rhythms of
the Little Good Folk of the Scarlet Hills, more
than to listen to holy prayers. I^lise, who had a
warm, impulsive nature, in keeping with her black
eyes and tossing hair, who was all fire, and sun,
and heart, and temper, ran over and caught the
dwarf round the neck, and kissed him on the
cheek, dashing the tears out of her eyes, as slie
cried :
" Pm a cat, Pm a bad-tempered thing, Parpon ;
I hate myself."
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26
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
He laughed, shook his shaggy head, and pushed
her away the length of his long, strong arms.
" Bosh ! " said he, " you're a puss and no cat, and
I like you better for the claws. If you hate
yourself, you'll get a big penance. Hate the ugly
like Parpon, not the pretty like you. The one's
no sin, the other is."
" Who is he, Parpon ? " she asked in a low voice,
not looking at him.
She was beside the open door of the oven ; and
it would be hard to tell whether her face was suffer-
ing from heat or from blushes. However that
might chance, her mouth was soft and sweet, and
her eyes were still wet.
" Is he like Duclosse the mealman, or Jos6
Lajeunesse, or Garotte the limeburner, — and the
rest ? " he asked.
"Of course not."
" Is he like the Cure, or Monsieur De la Riviere,
or Monsieur Garon, or Monsieur Medallion ? "
" He's different," she said hesitatingly.
" Better or worse ? "
" More — more " — she didn't know what to say
— " more interesting."
" Is he like the Judge Honorable that come
from Montreal, or the grand Governor, or the
General that travel with the Governor ? "
" Yes, but different — more — more like us in
some things, like them in others, and more —
splendid. He speaks such fine things ! You mind
the other night at the Louis Quinze. He is like — "
I
A'--.
;
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WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
27
i
She paused. " What is he like ? " Parpon asked
slyly, enjoying her difiiculty.
"Ah, I know," she answered; "he is a little
like Madame the American, who came two years
ago. There is something — something ! "
Parpon laughed again. " Like Madame Chalice
from New York — fudge ! " Yet he eyed her as if
he admired her penetration. " How .'' " he urged.
"I don't know— quite," she answered a little
pettishly. " But 1 used to see Madame go off in
the woods, and she would sit hour by hour, and
listen to the waterfall, and talk to the birds, and
at herself too; and more than once I saw her shut
her hands — like that ! You remember what tiny
hands she had ? " (She glanced at her own brown
ones unconsciously.) "And she spoke out, her
eyes running with tears — and she all in pretty
silks, and a color like a rose. She spoke out like
this : ' Oh, if I could only do something, something,
some big thing ! What is all this silly coming and
going to me, when I know, I know I might do it,
if I had the chance ! O Harry, Harry, can't you
understand, and help me ? ' "
" Harry was her husband. Ah, what a fisher-
man was he ! " said Parpon, nodding. " What did
she mean by doing uig things ' ? "
"How do I know?" asked the girl, fretfully.
"But Monsieur Valmond seems to mc like her,
just the same."
"Monsieur Valmond is a great man," said Par-
pon, slowly.
f.
I
d)
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28
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
•' You know," she cried eagerly ; " you know !
Oh, tell me, what is he ? Who is he ? Where
does he come from ? Why is he here ? How long
will he stay ? Tell me, how long will he stay ? "
She caught flutteringly at Parpen's shoulder.
•' You remember what I sang the other night ? "
he asked.
"Yes, yes," she answered quickly. " Oh, how
beautiful it was ! Ah, Parpon, why don't you
sing for us oftener, and all the world would love
you, and "
"I don't love the world," he retorted gruffly,
"and I'll sing for the devil" (she crossed herself)
" as soon as for silly gossips in Pontiac."
"Well, well, what had your song to do with
him, with Monsieur Valmond ? "
"Think hard, my dear," he said, with mystery
in his look. " Madame Chalice is coming back
to-day ; the Manor House is open, and you should
see how they fly round up there." He nodded
toward the hill beyond.
" Pontiac '11 be a fine place by and by," she re-
plied, for she had village patriotism deep in her
veins. Had not her people lived there long before
the conquest by the English ?
" But tell me, tell me what your song had to do
with Monsieur," she urged again. " It's a pretty
song, but "
"Think about it," he answered provokingly.
" Adieu, my child," he went on, mockingly, using
Valmond's words, and catching both her hands
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
29
\
as he had done ; then springing upon a bench
by the oven, he kissed her on both checks.
"Adieu, my child," he said again, and jumping
down, trotted out into the road. Back to her,
from the dust he made as he shuffled away, there
came the words :
" Gold and silver he will bring,
Vive Ic roi, la rcine !
And eke the daughter of a king —
Vive Napoleon ! "
She went about her work, the song in her ears,
and the words of the refrain beat in and out,
out and in — " Vive Napoleon /" Her brow was
troubled, and she perched her head on this side
and on that, as she tried to guess what the dwarf
had meant. At last she sat down on a bench at
the door of her home, and the summer afternoon
spent its glories on her, for the sunflowers and the
hollyhocks were round her, and the warmth gave
her face a shining health and joyousness. There
she brooded till she heard the voice of her mother
calling across the meadow near, and she arose
with a sigh, softly repeating Parpon's words,
" He is a great man."
In the middle of the night she started up from
a sound sleep, and, with a little cry, whispered
into the silence, " Napoleon — Napoleon ! "
She was thinking of Valmond. A revelation
had come to her out of her dreams. But she
laughed at it, and buried her face in her pillow
and went to sleep, hoping to dream again.
hi
I
It ,
T
CHAPTER III
1 N less than one week Valmond was as out-
standing from Pontiac as Dalgrothe Mountain,
just beyond it in the south. His liberality, his
jocundity, his occasional abstraction, his medita-
tive pose, were all his own ; his humor that of the
people. He was too quick in repartee and drollery
for a bourgeois, too " near to the bone " in point, for
an aristocrat, with his dual touch of the comedian
and the peasant. Besides, he was mysterious and
picturesque, and this is alluring to women and to
the humble, if not to all the world. It might be
his was the comedian's fascination, but the Hashes
of grotesqueness rather pleased the eye, than hurt
the taste of Pontiac.
Only in one quarter was there hesitation, added
to an anxiety almost painful ; for to doubt or dis-
trust Monsieur Valmond would have shocked the
sense of courtesy so dear to Monsieur the Cur6,
Monsieur Garon, the Little Chemist, and even
Medallion the auctioneer, who had assimilated
something of the spirit of those old-fashioned
gentlemen into his bluff, odd nature. Monsieur
De la Riviere, the young Seigneur, had to be
reckoned with independently.
It was their custom to meet once a week at the
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
31
V
house of one or another for a causerie, as the avo-
cat called it. On the Friday evening of this par-
ticular week, all were seated in the front garden
of the Curb's house, as Valmond came over the
hill, going toward the Louis Quinze. His step
was light, his head laid slightly to one side, as if
in pleased and inquiring revery, and, strangely
enough, there was a lifting of one corner of the
mouth, suggesting a gay disdain. Was it that
disdain whicii comes from conquest not important
enough to satisfy ambition ? The social subjuga-
tion of a village — to be conspicuous and attract
the groundlings in this tiny theatre of life !
He appeared not to see the little coterie, but
presently turned, when just opposite the gate,
and, raising his hat, half paused. Then without
more ado he opened it, and advanced to the
outstretciied hand of the Cur6, who greeted him
with a courtly affability. He shook hands with,
and nodded good-humoredly at Medallion and
the Little Chemist, bovv'ed to the avocat, and
touched off his greeting to Monsieur De la Rivi-
ere with deliberation, not offering his hand — this
very reserve a sign of equality not lost on the
young Seigneur. He had not this stranger at any
particular advantage, as he had wished, he knew
scarcely why. Valmond took the seat offered
him beside the Cure, who remarked presently :
" My dear friend Monsieur Garon was saying
just now that the spirit of France has ever been
the captain of Freedom among the nations."
I,
!(
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32
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
■ \
t1'
Valmond glanced quickly from the Cur^ to the
others, a swift, inquisitive look, then settled back
in his chair, and turned, bovvinjj, towards Mon-
sieur Garon. The avocat's pale face flushed, his
long, thin fingers twined round each other and
untwined, and he spoke in a little chirping voice,
so quaint as to be almost unreal :
" I was saying that the spirit of France lived
always ahead of the time, was ever first to con-
ceive the feeling of the coming century, and by
its own struggles and sufferings — sometimes too
abrupt and perilous — made easy the way for the
rest of the world."
During these words a change passed over Val-
mond. His restless body became still, his mobile
face steady and almost set ; all the life of him
seemed to have burnt into his eyes ; but he an-
swered nothing, and the Cur^ in the pause was
constrained to say :
"Our dear Monsieur Garon knows perfectly the
history of France, and is devoted to the study of
the Napoleonic times and of the Great Revolu-
tion— alas for our people and the saints of Holy
Church who perished then ! "
The avocat lifted a hand in mute disacknowledg-
ment. Again there was a silence, and out of the
pause Monsieur De la Riviere's voice was heard :
" Monsieur Valmond, how fares this spirit of
France now ? — you come from France, eh ? "
There was a shadow of condescension and
ulterior meaning in De la Riviere's voice, for he
■
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 33
had cau^^ht the tricks of the />osettr in their singu-
lar guest.
Valmond did not stir, but looked steadily at
De la Riviere, and said slowly, dramatically, yet
with a strange genuineness also:
" The spirit of France, monsieur, the spirit of
France, looks not forward only, but backward, for
her inspiration. It is as ready for action now as
when the old order was dragged from Versailles
to Paris, and in Paris to the guillotine ; when
France got a principle and waited, waited "
He did not finish his sentence, but threw back
his head with a sort of reflective laugh.
" Waited for what ? " asked the young Seigneur,
trying to conquer his dislike.
"For the Man," came the quick reply.
The avocat rubbed his hands in pleasure. He
instantly divined one who knew his subject,
though he talked thus melodramatically : a thing
not uncommon among the habitants and the pro-
fessional story-tellers, but scarcely the way of the
coterie.
"Ah, yes, yes," he said, "for — "i monsieur,
for — ?" He paused, as if to give himself the
delight of hearing their visitor speak.
"For Napoleon," was the abrupt reply.
" Ah, yes, dear Lord, yes — a Napoleon — of— of
the First Empire. France can only cherish an
idea when a man is behind it, when a man lives
it, embodies it. She must have heroes. She is a
poet, a poet — and an actress."
3
\
,1
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34
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
I ll
"So said the Man, Napoleon," cried Valmond,
getting- to his feet. " He said that to Barras, to
R^musat, to Josephine, to Lucicn, to — to another,
when France had for the moment lost both her
idea and her man."
The avocat trembled to his feet to meet Val-
mond, who stood up as he spoke, his face shining
with enthusiasm, a hand raised in broad dramatic
gesture, a dignity come upon him, in marked con-
trast to the inconsequent figure which had dis-
ported itself through the village during the past
week. The avocat had found a man after his own
heart. He knew that Valmond understood whereof
he spoke. It was as if an artist saw a young gen-
ius use a brush on canvas for a moment ; a swords-
man watch an unknown master of the sword. It
was not so much the immediate act, as the divina-
tion, the rapport, the spirit behind the act, which
could only come from the soul of the real thing.
" I thank you, monsieur ; I thank you with all
my heart," the avocat said. " It is the true word
you have spoken."
Here a lad came running to fetch the Little
Chemist, and Medallion and he departed, but not
without the auctioneer having pressed Valmond's
hand warmly, for he was quick of emotion, and,
like the avocat, he recognized, as he thought, the
true word behind the dramatic trappings.
Monsieur Garon and Valmond talked on, eager,
responsive, Valmond lost in the discussion of
Napoleon ; Garon in the man before him. By
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
35
many pregnant allusions, by a map drawn hastily
on the ground hero, and an explosion of secret
history there, did Valmond win to a sort of wor-
ship this fine little Napoleonic scholar, who had
devoured every book on his hero which had come
in his way since boyhood. Student as he was, he
had met a man whose knowledge of the Napo-
leonic life was vastly more intricate, searching,
and vital than his own. He, Monsieur Garon,
spoke as from a book or out of a library, but this
man as from the Invalides, or, since that is anach-
ronistic, from the lonely rock of St. Helena. A
private saying of Napoleon's, a word from his let-
ters and biography, a phrase out of his speeches
to his soldiers, sent tears to the avocat's eyes, and
for a moment transformed Valmond.
While they talked, the Cur6 and the young
Seigneur listened, and there passed into their
minds the same wonder that had perplexed £lise
Malboir ; so that they were troubled, as was she,
each after his own manner and temperament.
Their reasoning, their feelings, were different, but
they were coming to the point the girl had reached
when she cried into the darkness of the night,
" Napoleon ! Napoleon ! "
They sat forgetful of the passing of time, the
Cur(? preening with pleasure because of Valmond's
remarks upon the Church, when quoting the First
Napoleon's praise of religion.
Suddenly a carriage came dashing up the hill
with four horses and a postilion. The avocat was
1 !
1
\i
36
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
n
in the house searching for a book, but De la Rivi-
ere, seeing the carriage, got to his feet with in-
stant excitement, and the others turned to look.
As it neared the house, the Cur6 took off his beretta
and smiled complacently, a little red spot burning
on both cheeks. These deepened as the carriage
stopped, and a lady, a little lady like a golden
llower, with sunny eyes and face — how did she
keep so fresh in their dusty roads i* — stood up im-
pulsively, and before any one could reach the gate
to assist her entered, her blue eyes swimming
with the warmth of a kind heart — or a warm tem-
perament, which may exist without a kind heart.
Was it the heart or the temperament, or both,
that sent her forward with hands outstretched,
saying :
" Ah, my dear, dear Cur6, how glad I am to see
you once again ! It has been two years too long,
dear Cur^."
She held his hand in both of hers, and looked
up into his eyes with a smile at once childlike and
naive — and masterful ; for behind the simplicity
and the girlish manner there was a power, a
mind, with which this sweet golden hair and
cheeks like a rose garden had nothing to do.
The Cur6, beaming, touched by her warmth, and
by her tiny caressing fingers, stooped and kissed
them like an old courtier. He had come of a
good family in France long ago, — very long ago,
— and even in this French-Canadian village where
he had taught, and served, and lingered forty
f
I
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
37
years, he had kept some graces of his youth, and
this beautiful woman drew them out. Since he
came to Pontiac he had never kissed a woman's
hand — women had kissed his ; and this woman
was a Protestant, like MedaUion !
Turning from the Cur<^', she held out a hand to
the young Seigneur with a little casual air, as if
she had but seen him yesterday, and said : " Mon-
sieur De la Riviere — what, still buried ? — and the
world waiting for the great touch ! But we in
Pontiac gain what the world loses."
She turned to the Cur^ again, placing a hand
upon his arm :
" I could not pass without stepping in upon my
dear old friend, even though soiled and unpre-
sentable. But you forgive that, don't you ? "
" Madame is always welcome, and always —
unspotted of the dusty world," he answered gal-
lantly.
She caught his fingers in hers as might a child,
turned full upon Valmond, and waited. The Cur^
instantly presented him to her. She looked at
him brightly, alluringly, apparently so simply ;
yet her first act showed the perception behind that
rosy and golden face, and the demure eyes whose
lids languished now and then — to the unknowing
with an air of coquetry, to the knowing (did any
know her ?) as one would shade one's eyes lO see
a landscape clearly, or make out a distant figure.
As Valmond bowed, a thought seemed to fetch
down the pink eyelids, and she stretched out her
* »
r'
,«*^
38
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
I >
il
hand, which he took and kissed, while she said
in English, though they had been talking in
French :
•' A traveller too, like myself, Monsieur Val-
mond ? But Pontiac — why Pontiac ? "
Furtive inquiry shot from the eyes of the young
Seigneur, a puzzled glance from the Cure's, as
they watched Valmond ; for they did not know that
he had knowledge of English ; he had not spoken
it to Medallion, who always sent into his talk sev-
eral English words.
How did this woman divine it ?
A strange look flashed into Valmond's face, but
it was gone on the instant, and he replied quickly :
"Yes, madame, a traveller ; and for Pontiac,
there is as much earth and sky about it as about
Paris, or London, or New York."
" But people count. Monsieur — Valmond."
She hesitated before the name as if trvingr to re-
member it, though she recalled it perfectly; it was
her tiny fashion to pique, appear unknowing.
" Truly, Madame Chalice," he answered instant-
ly, for he did not yield to a like temptation ; " but
the few are as important to us as the many some-
times— eh ? "
She almost started at the e/t, for it broke in
grimly upon the gentlemanly flavor of his speech.
" If my reasons for coming were only as good
as madame's — " he added.
" Who knows ? " she said, with her eye resting
idly on his flowered waistcoat, and dropping to
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
39
the incongruous enamelled knee-boots with their
red tassels. She turned to the Cur6 again, but
not till Valmond had added :
" Or the same— who knows ? "
Again she looked at him with drooping eyelids,
and a slight smile so full of acid possibilities that
De la Riviere drew in a sibilant breath of delight.
Her movement had been as towards an imperti-
nence ; but as she caught Valmond's eye, some-
thing in it so really boy-like, earnest, and Tee
from insolence met hers, that, with a little way she
had, she laid back her head slowly, her lips parted
anew, in a sweet, ambiguous smile, her glance
dwelt on him with a humorous interest, or flash of
purpose, and she said softly :
" Nobody knows — eh ? "
She could not resist the delicate malice of the
exclamation, she imitated the gaticherie so de-
lightfully. Valmond did not fail to see her mean-
ing, but he was too wise to show it.
He hardly knew how it was he had answered
her unhesitatingly in English, for it had been his
purpose to avoid speaking English in Pontiac.
Presently Madame Chalice caught sight of Mon-
sieur Garon coming from the house. When he
saw her he stopped short in delighted surprise.
Gathering up her skirts, she ran to him, put both
hands on his shoulders, and kissed him on the
cheek.
"Monsieur Garon, Monsieur Garon, my gcod
avocat, my Solon, are the coffee, and the history.
'i
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40
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
"I
and the blest Madeira still chez-toi ? " she asked
gayly.
There was no jealousy in the Cur6 ; he smiled
at the scene with great benevolence, for he was
as a brother to Monsieur Garon. If he had any
good thing, it was his first wish to share it with
him, even to taking him miles away to some sim-
ple home where a happy thing had come to poor
folk — the return of a prodigal son, a daughter's
fortunate marriage, or the birth of a child to child-
less people ; and there together they exchanged
pinches of snuff over the event, and made compli-
ments from the same mould, nor desired difference
of pattern. To the pretty lady's words, Monsieur
Garon blushed, and his thin hand fluttered to his
lips. As if in sympathy the Curd's fingers trem-
bled to his cassock cord.
"Madame, dear madame " — the Curd approved
by a caressing nod — "we are all the same here
in our hearts and in our homes, and if anything
be good in them it is because you are pleased.
You bring sunshine and relish to our lives, dear
madame."
The Curd beamed. This was after his own
heart, and he had ever said that his dear avocat
would have been a brilliant orator, were it not for
his retiring spirit. For himself, he was no speaker
at all ; he could only do his duty and love his
people. So he had declared over and over
again, and the look in his eyes said the same
now.
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
41
Madame's eyes were shining with tears. This
admiration of her was too real to be doubted,
"And yet, and yet—" she said, with a hand in
the Curb's and the avocat's, drawing- them near
her, "a heretic, my dear friends ! How should I
stand in your hearts if I were only of your faith ?
Or is it that you yearn over the lost sheep more
than over the ninety and nine of the fold ? "
There was a real moisture in her eyes, and in
her own heart she wondered, this fresh and
venturing spirit, if she cared for them as they
seemed to care for her — for she felt she had an
inherent strain of the actress temperament, while
these honest provincials were wholly real.
But if she made them happy by her gayety,
what matter? And so the tears dried as she
flashed a malicious look at the young Seigneur,
as though to say : " You had your chance, and you
made nothing of it, and these simple gentlemen
have done the gracious thing."
Perhaps it was a liberal interpretation of his
creed which prompted the Cur6 to add with a
quaint smile :
"'Thou art not far from the Kingdom,' my
daughter."
The avocat, who had no vanity, hastened to add
to his former remarks, as if he had been guilty of
an oversight :
"Dear madame, you have flattered my poor
gleanings in history ; I am happy to tell you that
there is here another and a better pilot in that sea.
.m
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42
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
< * '
,H
;i
It is Monsieur Valmond," he added, his voice
chirruping in his pleasure. " For Napoleon "
" Ah, Napoleon, yes. Napoleon ? " she said,
turning to Valmond with a look half of interest,
half of incredulity.
" — For Napoleon is, through him, a revelation,"
the avocat went on. " He fills in the vague spaces,
clears up mysteries of incident, and gives, instead,
mystery of character."
"Indeed," she added, still incredulous, but
interested in this bizarre figure who had so
worked upon her old friend ; interested because
she had a keen scent for mystery, and instinctively
felt it here before her. Like De la Riviere, she
perceived a strange combination of the gentleman
and — something else ; but, unlike him, she saw
also a light in the face and eyes that might be
genius, poetry, adventure. For the incongruities,
what did they matter to her ? She wished to
probe life, to live it, to race the whole gamut of
inquiry, experience, follies, loves, and sacrifices,
to squeeze the orange dry, and then to die while
yet young, having gone the full compass, the
needle pointing home. She was as broad as
sumptuous in her nature ; so what did 2i gauche-
rie matter, or this dash of the Oriental in a citizen
of the Occident ?
" Then we must set the centuries right, and so
on — if you will come to see me when I am settled
at the Manor," she said to Valmond. He bowed,
expressed his pleasure a little oracularly, and was
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
43
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I
about to say something else, but she turned deftly
to De la Riviere, with a sweetness which made up
for her previous irony to him, and said :
" You, my excellent Seigneur, will come to
breakfast with me one day ? My husband will
be here soon. When you see our flag flying, you
will find the table always laid for four."
Then to the Cur6 and the avocat : " You shall
visit me whenever you will, and you are to wait
for nothing, or I shall come to fetch you. I
am so glad to see you. And now, dear Cur6,
will you take me to my carriage ?"
A surf of dust rising back of the carriage soon
hid her from view ; but four men, left behind in
the little garden, stood watching, as if they ex-
pected to see a vision in rose and gold rise from it ;
and each was smiling unconsciously.
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CHAPTER IV
OINCE Friday night the good Cur^, in his calm,
philosophical way, had brooded much over the
talk in the garden upon France, the Revolution,
and Napoleon. As a rule, his sermons were com-
monplace almost to a classical simplicity, but
there were time.'- when, moved by some new
theme, he trii:e''! . j the villagers as if they, like
himself, were learned and wise.
His thougiits I'vert: ' 'o his old life in France,
to the two Napoleons that he had seen, and the
time when, at Neuilly, a famous general burst into
his father's house, and with streaming tears cried :
"He is dead — he is dead — at St. Helena — Napo-
leon ! Oh, Napoleon ! "
A chapter of Isaiah came to the Curb's mind.
He brought out his Bible from the house, and
walking up and down read aloud certain pas-
sages. They kept ringing in his ears all day :
" He will surely violently turn and toss thee
like a ball into a large country : there shall thou
die, and there the chariots of thy glory shall be
the shame of thy lord's house. . . .
" And it shall come to pass in that day, that I
will call my servant Eliakim son of Hilkiah :
*' And I will clothe him with thy robe, a7id
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 45
strengthen him with thy girdle, and I will coyn-
mit thy government into his hand. . . .
" And I will fasten him as r nail in a sure
place ; and he shall be for a glorious throne to
his father' s house.
"And they shall hang upon him all the glory
of his father's house, the offspri7ig and the
issue. . . ."
His face shone with a gentle benignity, as he
quoted these verses in the pulpit on Sunday morn-
ing, with a half smile, as of pleased meditation.
He was lost to the people before him, and when
he began to speak, it was as in soliloquy. He was
talking to a vague audience, into that space where
a man's eyes look when he is searching his own
mind, discovering it to himself.
The instability of earthly power, the putting
down of the great, their exile and chastening, and
their restoration in their own persons, or in the
persons of their descendants— was his subject. He
brought the application down to their own rude,
simple life, then returned with it to a higher plane.
At last, as if the memories of France " beloved
and incomparable " overcame him, he dwelt upon
the bitter glory of the Revolution. Then, with a
sudden flush, he spoke of Napoleon. At that name
the church became still, and the dullest habitant
listened intently. Napoleon was in the air— a
curious sequence to the song that was sung on
the night of Valmond's arrival, when a phrase
was put in the mouths of the parish, which gave
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46
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
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birth to a personal reality. "Vive Napoleon J"
had been on every lip this week, and it was an
easy step from a phrase to a man.
The Cur6 spoke with pensive dignity of Napo-
leon's past career, his work for France, his too
proud ambition, behind which was his great love
of country, and how, for chastening, God turned
upon him violently and tossed him like a ball into
the wide land of exile, from which he came out no
more.
"But," continued the calm voice, "his spirit,
stripped of the rubbish of this quarrelsome world,
and freed from the spite of foes, comes out from
exile and lives in our France to-day — for she is
still ours, though we find peace, and bread to eat,
under another flag. And in these troubled times,
when France needs a man, even as a barren
woman a child to be the token of her woman-
hood, it may be that one sprung from the loins
of the great Napoleon may again give life to
the principle which some have sought to make
into a legend. Even as the great deliverer came
out of obscure Corsica, so from some outpost
of France, where the old watchwords still are
called, may rise another Napoleon, whose mis-
sion will be civic glory and peace alone, the
champion of the spirit of France, defending it
against the unjust. He shall be fastened as a
nail in a sure place, as a glorious throne to his
father's house."
He leaned over the pulpit, and, pausing, looked
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
47
down at his congregation. Then, all at once, he
was aware that he had created a profound impres-
sion. Just in front of him, his eyes burning with
a strange fire, sat Monsieur Valmond. Parpon,
beside him, hung over the back of a seat, his long
arms stretched out, his hands applauding in a
soundless way. Beneath the sword of Louis the
Martyr, the great treasure of the parish, presented
to this church by Marie Antoinette, sat the avo-
cat, his thin fingers pressed to his mouth as if to
stop a sound, bright spots of excitement burning
on his cheeks. Presently, out of pure spontaneity,
there ran through the church like a soft chorus :
" Oh, say, where goes your love?
O gai, vive Ic roi !
He wears a silver sword,
Vive Napoleon ! "
The thing was unprecedented. Who had started
it ? Afterwards some said it was Parpon, the now
chosen comrade — or servant — of Valmond, who,
people said, had given himself up to the stranger,
body and soul ; but no one could swear to that.
Shocked, and taken out of his dream, the Cur6
raised his hand against the song. " Hush, hush,
my children," he said. " Hush, I command you."
It was the sight of the upraised hands, more
than the Curb's voice, which stilled the outburst.
Those sanie hands had sprinkled the holy water
in the sacrament of baptism, had blessed man and
maid at the altar, had quieted the angry arm
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48
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
lifted to strike, had anointed the brow of the
dying, and laid a crucifix on breasts which had
ceased to harbor breath, and care, and love, and
all things else.
Silence fell. In another moment the sermon
was finished, but not till his eyes had again met
those of Valmond, and there had passed into his
mind a sudden, startling thought. Unconsciously
the Cur^ had declared himself the patron of all
that made Pontiac forever a notable spot in the
eyes of three nations ; and if he repented of it, no
man ever knew.
During mass and the sermon Valmond had sat
very still, once or twice smiling curiously at
thought of how, inactive himself, the gate of des-
tiny was being opened up for him. Yet he had
not been all inactive. He had paid much atten-
tion to his toilet, selecting, with purpose, the white
waistcoat, the long, blue-gray coat cut in a fash-
ion anterior to this time by thirty years or more,
and particularly to the arrangement of his hair.
He resembled Napoleon — not the later Napoleon,
but the Bonaparte who fought at Marengo, lean,
shy, laconic ; and this had startled the Cur6 in his
pulpit, and the rest of the little coterie.
But Madame Chalice, sitting not far from 6lise
Malboir, had seen the resemblance in the Curb's
garden on Friday evening ; and though she had
laughed at it, — for, indeed, the matter was ludi-
crous enough at first, — the impression had re-
mained.
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
49
She was no Catholic, she did not as a rule care
for religious services, but there was interest in the
air, she was restless, the morning was inviting, she
was reverent of all true expression of life and feel-
ing, though a sad mocker in much ; and so she
had come to the little church.
Following Elise's intent look, she read with
amusement the girl's budding romance, and was
then suddenly arrested by the head of Valmond,
now half turned towards her. It had, indeed, a
look of the First Napoleon. Was it the hair ? Yes,
it must be ; but the head was not so square, so firm-
set, and what a world of difference in the grand
effect ! The one had been distant, splendid, brood-
ing (so she glorified him) ; the other was an im-
pressionist imitation, with dash, form, poetry, and
color. .But the great strength ? It was lacking.
The close association of Parpon and Valmond —
that was droll ; yet, too, it had a sort of fitness, she
knew scarcely why. However, it proved that mon-
sieur was not a fool, in the vulgar sense, for he had
made a friend of a little creature who could be
a wasp or a humming-bird, as he pleased. Then,
too, the stranger had conquered her dear avocat ;
had won the hearts of the mothers and daughters —
her own servants talked of no one else ; had cap-
tured this pretty Elise Malboir ; had made the
young men imitate his walk and retail his sayings ;
had won from herself an invitation to visit her ;
and now, making an unconscious herald and
champion of an innocent old Cure, had set a whole
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WHEN VALMOND CAME TO rONTlAC
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congregation singing " Vt've Napoleon " after
mass.
Napoleon ? She threw baclc her pretty head,
laughed softly, and fanned herself. Napoleon ?
Why, of course, there could be no real connec-
tion ; the man was an impostor, a base impostor,
playing upon the credulities of a secluded village.
Absurd — and interesting ! So interesting, she did
not resent the attention given to Valmond, to the
exclusion of herself; though, to speak truly, her
vanity desired not admiration more than is in-
herent in the race of women, whose way to power,
through centuries, has been personal influence.
Yet she was very dainty this morning, good to
look at, and refreshing, with everything in flower-
like accord ; simple in general effect, though with
touches of the dramatic here and there — in the
little black patch on the delicate health of her
cheek, in the seductive arrangements of her laces.
She loved dress, all the vanities, but she had some-
thing that rose above them — an imaginative mind,
certain of whose faculties had been sharpened to a
fine edge of cleverness and wit. For she was but
twenty-three, with the logic of a woman of fifty,
without its setness and lack of elasticity. She
went straight for the hearts of things, while yet
glittering upon the surface.
This was why Valmond interested her — not as a
man, a physical personality, but as a mystery to be
probed, discovered. Sentiment ? Coquetry ? Not
with him. That for less interesting men, she said.
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO TONTIAC
SI
Why should a point or two of dress and manners
affect her unpleasantly? She ought to be just, to
remember that there was a touch of the fantastic,
of the barbaric, in all genius.
Was he a genius ? For an instant she almost
thought that he was, when she saw the people
make way for him to pass out of the church, as
though he were a great personage, I'arpon trotting
behind him. Me carried himself with true appre-
ciation of the incident, acknowledging more by
look than by sign this courtesy.
"Upon my word," she said, "he has them in his
pocket ! " Then, unconsciously plagiarizing Tar-
pon : " Prince or barber — a toss-up, indeed ! "
Outside, many had gathered round Medallion.
The auctioneer, who liked the unique thing and
was not without tact, so took on himself the office
of inquisitor, even as there rose again little snatches
of " yi7/e Napoleon " from the crowd. He ap-
proached Valmond, who was moving on towards
the Louis Quinze, with just valuation of a time for
disappearing.
"We know you, sir," said Medallion, "as Mon-
sieur Valmond, but there are those who think you
would let us address you by a name better known —
indeed, the name dear to all Frenchmen. If it be
so, will you not let us call you Napoleon " (he took
off his hat, and Valmond did the same), " and will
you tell us what we may do for you ?"
Madame Chalice, a little way off, watched Val-
mond closely. He seemed to hesitate a moment.
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WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
yet he was not outwardly nervous, and presently
answered with an air o{ empressement:
"Monsieur, my friends, I am in the hands of
Fate. I am dumb. Fate speaks for me. But we
shall know each other better ; and I trust you,
who, as Frenchmen, descended from a better day in
France, will not betray me. Let us be patient till
Destiny strikes the hour."
For the first time to-day he now saw Madame
Chalice. She could have done no better thing to
serve him, than to hold out her hand, and say
in her clear tones, which had, too, a fascinating
sort of monotony :
" Monsieur, if you are idle Friday afternoon, per-
haps you will bestow on me a half-hour at the
Manor ; and I will try to make half mine no bad
one."
He was keen enough to feel the delicacy of the
point through the deftness of the phrase ; and
what he said and what he did now had no pose,
but sheer gratitude. With a few gracious words
to Medallion she bowed and drove away, leaving
Valmond in the midst of an admiring crowd.
He was launched on an adventure as whimsical
as tragical, if he was an impostor; and if he was
not, as pathetic as droll. He was scarcely con-
scious that Parpon walked beside him, till the
dwarf said :
" Hold on, my dauphin, you walk too fast for
your poor fool."
CHAPTER V
ROM this hour Valmond was carried on by a
wave of fortune. Before vespers that night, it was
common talk that he was a true son of the great
Napoleon, born at St. Helena.
Why did he come to Pontiac ? He wished to
be in retirement till his friends, acting for him in
France, gave him the signal, and then with a
small army of French Canadians he would cross
the sea, and land in France. Thousands would
gather round his standard, and so marching on
to Paris, the Napoleonic faith would be revived,
and he would come into his own. It is possible
that these stories might have been traced to Par-
pon, but he had covered up his trail so well that
no one followed him.
On that Sunday evening, young men and old
flocked into his room at the Louis Quinze, shook
hands with him, addressing him as " Your Excel-
lency " or " Your Highness," and so on. He main-
tained towards them a mysterious yet kindly re-
serve, singularly effective. They inspected the
martial furnishing of the room : the drum, the pair
of rifles, the pistols in the corner, the sabres crossed
on the wall, the gold-handled sword that lay upon
the table, and the picture of Napoleon on a white
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WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
horse, against the wall. Tobacco and wine were
set upon a side table, and every man as he passed
out, took a glass and enough tobacco for his pipe,
and said : " Of grace, your health, monseigneur ! "
There were those who scoffed, who from sheer
habit disbelieved, and nodded knowingly, and
whispered in each other's ears ; but these were in
the minority ; and all the women and children
declared for " The Man of Destiny." And when
some foolish body asked him for a lock of his hair,
and old Madame D^gardy (Crazy Joan, as she was
called) followed, offering him a pinch of snuff, and
a lad appeared with a bunch of violets from
Madame Chalice, the dissentients were cast in
shadow, and had no longer courage to doubt.
Madame Chalice had been merely whimsical in
sending these violets, which her gardener had
brought her that very morning.
" It will help along the pretty farce," she had
said to herself, and then she sat her down to read
Napoleon's letters to Josephine, and to wonder
that a woman could have been faithless and vile
with such a man. Her blood raced indignantly in
her veins, as she thought of it. She admired intel-
lect, supremacy, the gifts of temperament, deeds of
war and adventure beyond all. As yet her brain
was stronger than her feelings ; there had been no
breakers of emotion in her life. A wife, she had
no child; the mother in her was spent upon her
husband, whose devotion, honor, name, and good-
ness were dear to her. Yet — yet she had a world
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 55
Of her own. and reading Napoleon's impassioned
letters to his wife, written with how great horn-
age in the flow of the tide washing to famous
battlefields, an exultation of ambition inspired her
and the genius of her distinguished ancestors set
her heart beating hard. Presently, her face alive
with feeling, a furnace in her eyes, she repeated
a paragraph from Napoleons letters to Josephine •
-The enemy have lost, my dearest, eighteen
thousand men, prisoners, killed, and wounded
Wurm.er has nothing left but to throw himself
into Mantua. I hope soon to be in your arms
Hove you to distraction. All is well. Nothing-
IS wanting to your husband's happiness, save
the love of Josephine."
She sprang to her feet. "And she. wife of a
hero was in common intrigue with Hippolyte
Charles at the time ! She had a conqueror a
splendid adventurer, and coming emperor, for a
husband, and she loved him not. I_I could have
knelt to him— worshipped him. !"_ With a
httle hysterical, disdainful laugh (as of the soul
at use 0 she leaned upon the window, looking into
the village below, alternately smiling and frowning
at the thought of this adventurer down at the
Louis Quinze.
"Yet.whp can tell? Napoleon dressed infa-
mously. too. before he was successful, and Dis-
raeh was half mountebank at the start," she said
13ut again she laughed, as at an absurdity.
During the next few days Valmond was every-
:-*\
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S3B
56
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
i!
(-!
where — kind, liberal, tireless, at times melan-
choly; 'in the distant perspective of the stage,"
as Monsieur De la Riviere remarked mockingly.
But a passing member of the legislature met and
was conquered by Valmond, and carried on to
neighboring parishes the wondrous tale.
He carried it through Ville Bambord, fifty miles
away, and the story of how a Napoleon had come to
Pontiac, reached the ears of old Sergeant Eustache
Lagroin of the Old Guard, who had fought with
the Great Emperor at Waterloo, and in his army
on twenty other battlefields. He had been at
Fontainebleau when Napoleon bade farewell to
the Old Guard, saying : " For twenty years I have
ever found you in the path of honor and glory.
Adieu, my children ; I would I were able to press
you all to my heart — but I will at least press your
eagle. I go to record the great deeds we have
done together."
When the gossip came to Lagroin, as he sat in
his doorway, babbling of Grouchy, and Lannes,
and Davoust, the Little Corporal outflanking them
all in his praise, his dim eyes flared out from the
distant sky of youth and memory, his lips pursed
in anger, and he got to his feet, his stick pounding
angrily on the ground.
" Tut ! tut ! " said he. " A lie ! a pretty lie !
I knew all the Napoleons — Joseph, Lucien, Louis,
Jerome, Caroline, Eliza, Pauline — all ! I have seen
them every one. And their children — pah ! Who
can deceive me ? I will go to Pontiac, I will see
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 57
to this tomfoolery. I'll bring the rascal to the
drumhead. Does he think there is no one ? Pish !
I will spit him at the first stroke. Here, here.
Manette," he cried to his grand-daughter, '• fetch
out my uniform, give it an airing, and see to the
buttons. I will show this brag how one of the Old
Guard looked at Saint Jean. Quick, my sabre
polish ; I'll clean my musket, and to-morrow I will
go to Pontiac. I'll put the scamp through his
facmgs-but. yes ! I am eighty-five, but I have an
arm of thirty ! "
True to his word, the next morning at daybreak
he started to walk to Pontiac, accompanied for a
mile or so by Manette and a few of the villagers.
"See you, my child." he said, " I will stay with
my niece. Desire Malboir, and her daughter I^lise
there in Pontiac. You shall hear how I fetch that
vagabond to his potage ! "
Valmond had purchased a tolerable white horse
through Medallion, and after a day's grooming
the beast showed ofif very well, and he was now
seen riding about the parish, dressed after the
manner of the First Napoleon, with a cocked hat.
and a short sword at his side. He rode well, and
the silver and pennies he scattered were most
fruitful of effect from the martial elevation. He
happened to be riding into the village at one end,
as Sergeant Lagroin entered it at the other each
going toward the Louis Quinze. Valmond knew
nothing of Sergeant Lagroin, so that what fol-
lowed was of the inspiration of the moment. It
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WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
lU
sprang from his wit, and from his knowledge of
Napoleon and the Napoleonic history, a knowl-
edge which had sent Monsieur Garon into tears
of joy, and afterward off to the Manor House and
also to the Seigneury, full of praise of him.
Catching sight of the irate sergeant, the signifi-
cance of the thing flashed to his brain, and, sitting
very straight, Valmond rode steadily down towards
the old soldier. The sergeant had drawn notice as
he came up the street, and people thronged to their
doors, and children followed the gray, dust-covered
veteran in his last-century uniform. He came as
far as the Louis Quinze, and then, looking on up
the road, he saw the white horse, the cocked hat,
the white waistcoat, and the long gray coat. He
brought his stick down smartly on the ground,
drew himself up, squared his shoulders, and said :
" Courage, Eustache Lagroin. It is not forty
Prussians, but one rogue. Crush him ! Down
with the pretender ! "
So, with a defiant light in his eye, he came on,
the old uniform sagging loosely on the shrunken
body, which yet was soldier-like from head to
foot. Years of camp and discipUne, and battle and
endurance, were in the whole aspect of the man.
He was no more of Pontiac and this simple life
than Valmond himself.
So they neared each other, the challenger and
the challenged, the champion and the invader ;
and quickly the village emptied itself out to see.
When Valmond came so close that he could see
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WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
59
every detail of the old man's uniform, he suddenly
reined in his horse, drew him back on his haunches
with his left hand, and with his right saluted, not
the old sergeant, but the coat of the Old Guard,
to which his eyes were directed. Mechanically
the hand of the sergeant came to his cap, then,
with an angry movement, the old man seemed as
though he would attack him.
Valmond sat very still, his right hand thrust in
his bosom, his forehead bent, his eyes calmly,
resolutely, yet distantly, looking at the sergeant,
who grew suddenly still also, while the people
watched and wondered.
A soft light passed across Valmond's face, re-
lieving its theatrical firmness, and the half-con-
tprr.ptuous curl of his lip. He knew well enough
that this event would make or unmake him in
Pontiac. He became also aware that a carriage
had driven up among the villagers, and had
stopped, and though he did not look directly he
felt that it was Madame Chalice. This sudden
gentleness was not all assumed ; for the ancient
uniform of the sergeant touched something within
him, the true comedian, or the true Napoleon,
and it seemed as if he might get from his horse
and take the old soldier in his arms.
He rode forward, and paused again, with not
more than fifteen feet between them. The ser-
geant's brain was going round like a top. It was
not he that challenged, after all.
" Soldier of the Old Guard," cried Valmond, in a
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WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
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clear, ringing voice, " how far is it to Fried-
land ? "
Like a machine the veteran's hand went again
to his cap, and he answered :
" To Friedland— the width of a ditch."
His voice shook as he said it, and the world to
him was all a muddle ; for this question Napoleon
the Great had asked a private after that battle
on the AUe, when Berningsen, the Russian, threw
away an army to the master strategist.
The private had answered the question in the
words of Sergeant Lagroin. It was a saying long
afterward among the Old Guard, though it may
not be found in the usual histories of that time,
where every battalion, almost every company, had
a watchword, which passed to make room for
others, as victory followed victory.
" Soldier of the Old Guard," said Valmond again,
" how came you by those scars upon your fore-
head ? "
" I was a drummer at Auerstadt, a corporal at
Austerlitz, a sergeant at Waterloo," rolled back
the reply, in a high, quavering voice, as memories
of great events blew in upon the ancient fires of
his spirit.
" Ah," answered Valmond, nodding eagerly,
"with Davoust at Auerstadt — thirty against sixty
thousand men. At eight o'clock, all fog and mist,
as you marched up the defile toward the Sonnen-
berg hills, the brave Gudin and his division feeling
their way to Blucher. Comrade, how still you
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
6l
Stepped, your bayonet before you, clearing the
mists, your eyes straining, your teeth set, ready
to thrust. All at once a quick moving mass
sprang out of the haze, and upon you, with hardly
a sound of warning ; and an army of hussars
launched themselves at your bayonets ! You bent
that wall back like a piece of steel, and broke it.
Comrade, that was the beginning, in the mists of
morning. Tell me, how fared you in the light
of evening, at the end of that bloody day ? "
The old soldier was trembling. There was no
sign, no movement from the crowd. Across the
fields came the sharpening of a scythe and the
cry of the grasshoppers, and the sound of a mill-
wheel arose near by. In the mill itself, in a high
dormer window, sat Parpon and his black cat,
looking down upon the scene with a grim
smiling.
The old sergeant saw again that mist fronting
Sonnenberg rise up and show ten thousand splen-
did cavalry and fifty thousand infantry, with a king
and a prince to lead them down upon those malle-
able but unmoving squares of French infantry.
He saw himself drumming the Prussians back and
his Frenchmen on.
" Beautiful God ! " he cried proudly, " that was
a day ! And every man of the Third Corps that
time he lift up the lid of hell and drop a Prussian
in. I stand beside Davoust once, and ping come a
bullet, and take off his chapeau. It fell upon my
drum. I stoop and pick it up, and hand it to him,
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WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
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but I keep drumming with one hand all the time.
'Comrade,' say I, ' the army thank you for your
courtesy.' ' Brother,' he say, ' 'twas to your
drum,' and his eye flash out where Gudin carved
his way through those pigs of Prussians. ' I'd
take my head off to keep your saddle filled, com-
rade,' say I. Ping I come a bullet and catch me
in the calf. 'You hold your head too high, bro-
ther,' the general say, and he smile. ' I'll hold it
higher, comrade,' answer I, and I snatch at a
soldier. • Up with me on your shoulder, big com-
rade,' I say, and he lift me up. I make my sticks
sing on the leather. 'You shall take off your hat
to the Little Corporal to-morrow if you've still
your head, brother,' — he speak like that, and then
he ride away like the devil to Morand's guns.
Ha, ha, ha ! "
The sergeant's face was blazing, but with a
white sort of glare, for he was very pale, and he
seemed unconscious of all save the scene in his
mind's eye. "Ha, ha, ha!" he laughed again.
" Beautiful God, how did Davoust bring us on up
to Sonnenberg ! And next day I saw the Little
Corporal. ' Drummer,* say he, ' no head's too
high for my Guard. Come, you, comrade, your
general gives you to me. Come, Corporal La-
groin,* he call ; and I come. ' But, first,* he say,
' up on the shoulder of your big soldier again,
and play.* ' What shall I play, sire ? * I ask. ' Play
ten thousand heroes to Walhalla,* he answer.
I play, and I think of my brother Jacques,
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
63
who went fightirtg to heaven the day before.
Beautiful God, that was a day at Auerstadt ! "
"Soldier," said Valmond, waving his hand,
" step on. There is a drum at the Louis Quinze.
Let us go together, comrade."
The old sergeant was in a dream. He wheeled,
the crowd made way for him, and at the neck of
the white horse he came on to the hotel. As they
passed the carriage of Madame Chalice, Valmond
made no sign. They stopped in front of the hotel,
and Valmond, motioning to the gargon, gave him
an order. The old sergeant stood silent, his eyes
full fixed upon him. In a moment the boy came
out with the drum. Valmond took it, and holdincr
it in his hands, said softly :
" Soldier of the Old Guard, here is a drum of
France."
Without a word the old man took the drum, his
fingers trembling as he fastened it to his belt.
When he seized the sticks, all trembling ceased,
and his hands and body grew steady. He was
living in the past entirely.
"Soldier," said Valmond, in a loud voice, "re-
member Austerlitz. The Heights of Pratzen are
before you. Play up the feet of the army."
For an instant the old man did not mov^e, and
then a sullen sort of look came over his face. He
was not a drummer at Austerlitz, and for the in-
stant he did not remember the tune the drummers
played.
"Soldier," said Valmond, softly, "with 'The
I?
I
64
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
I
Little Sword that Danced,' play up the feet of the
army."
A light broke over the old man's face. The
swift look he cast on Valmond had no distrust now.
Instantly his hand went to his cap.
" My General ! " he said, and stepped in front of
the white horse. There was a moment's pause,
and then the sergeant's arms were raised, and
down came the sticks with a rolling rattle on the
leather. They sent a shiver of feeling through the
village, and turned the meek white horse into a
charger of war. No man laughed at the drama
performed in Pontiac that day, not even the little
coterie who were present, not even Monsieur De
la Riviere, whose brow was black with hatred, for
he had watched the eyes of Madame Chalice fill
with tears at the old sergeant's tale of Auerstadt,
had noticed her admiring glance " at this damned
comedian," as he now designated Valmond. When
he came to the carriage of Madame Chalice, she
said with oblique suggestion :
" What do you think of it ? "
" Impostor ! Fakir ! " was his sulky reply.
" If fakirs and impostors are so convincing, dear
monsieur, why be yourself longer ? . . .
Listen 1 " she commanded abruptly.
Valmond had spoken down at the aged drum-
mer, whose arms were young again, as once more
he marched on Pratzen. Suddenly from the ser-
geant's lips there broke, in a high shaking voice, to
the rattle of the drum :
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 65
" Conscrits an pas ;
A't' ph'urcz pas ;
Nc plenrez pas ;
Marchez au pas.
An pas, an pas, an pas, aupasf'
They had not gone twenty yards before fifty
men and boys, caught in the inflammable moment,
sprang out from the crowd, fell involuntarily, into
rough marching order, and joined in the inspiring
refrain :
" Marchez au pas,
Aupas, aupas, aupas, attpas r*
The old man in front was charged anew. All
at once, at a word from Valmond, he broke into
the Marseillaise, with his voice and with his drum.
To these Frenchmen of an age before the Revolu-
tion, the Marseillaise had only been a song. Now
in their ignorant breasts there waked the spirit of
France, and from their throats there burst out with
a half-delirious ecstasy :
" Allans, enfants de la patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrive.''*
As they neared the Louis Quinze a dozen men,
just arrived in the village, returned from river-
driving, carried away by the chant, tumultuously
jined the cavalcade, and so came on in a fever of
vague patriotism. A false note in the proceedings,
66
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
« I
#
a mismove on the part of Valmond, would easily
have made the thing ridiculous ; but even to
Madame Chalice, with her keen artistic sense, it
had a pathetic sort of dignity, by virtue of its rude
earnestness, its raw sincerity. She mvoluntarily
thought of the great Napoleon and his toy king-
dom of Elbe, of Garibaldi and his handful of
patriots. There were depths here, and she
knew it.
" Even the pantaloon may have a soul, — or a
king may have a heart," she said.
In front of the Louis Quinze, Valmond waved
his hand for a halt, and the ancient drummer
wheeled and faced him, fronting the crowd. Val-
mond was pale, and his eyes burned like rest-
less ghosts. The Cupid bow of the thin Napole-
onic lips, the distant yet piercing look of the Great
Emperor, manifested itself in this man with start-
ling distinctness as he waved his hand again, and
the crowd became silent.
" My children," said he, " we have made a good
beginning. Once more among you the antique
spirit lives. From you may come the quickening
of our beloved country; for she is yours, though
here under the flag of our ancient and amiable
enemy you wait the hour of your return to her.
In you there is nothing mean or dull ; you are
true Frenchmen. My love is with you. And you
and I, true to each other, may come into our own
again — over there ! "
He pointed to the East.
K \
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 67
"Through you and me may France be born
agam, and in the villages and fields and houses
of Normandy and Brittany you may, as did your
ancestors, live in peace, and bring your bones to
rest m that blessed and honorable ground My
children, my heart is full. Let us move on to-
gether. Napoleon from St. Helena calls to you
Napoleon in Pontiac calls to you! Will you
co'^e ? "
Reckless cheering followed ; many were carried
away into foolish tears, and Valmond sat still and
let them kiss his hand, while pitchers of wine
went round.
Again he raised his hand, and getting silence
with a gesture, he opened his waistcoat, and took
from his bosom an order fastened to a little bar of
gold.
"Drummer," he said, in a clear full tone, •• call
the army to attention."
The old man set their blood tingling with the
impish sticks.
" I advance Sergeant Lagroin of the Old Guard
of glorious memory, to the rank of Captain in my
Household Troops, and I command you to obey
him as such."
His look then bent upon the crowd as Napo-
leon's might have done on the Third Corps.
" Drummer, call the army to attention," fell the
words again.
And like a small whirlwind of hailstones the
sticks shook on the drum.
\ I
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68
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
i
I
" I advance Captain Lagroin to the rank of Colo-
nel in my Household Troops, and I command you
to obey him as such."
And once more : " Drummer, call the army to
attention."
The sticks rang down, but they faltered a little,
for the drummer was trembling now.
" I advance Colonel Lagroin to the rank of Gen-
eral in my Household Troops, and I command you
to obey him as such."
He beckoned, and the old man drew near.
Stooping, he pinned the order upon his breast.
When the sergeant saw what it was, he turned
pale, and the drumsticks fell from his shaking
hands. His eyes shone like sun on wet glass,
then tears sprang from them upon his face. He
caught Valmond's hand and kissed it, and cried,
oblivious of them all :
"Ah, sire ! sire ! It is true. It is true. I know
that ribbon, and I know you are a Napoleon. Sire,
I love you, and I will die for you ! "
For the first time that day a touch of the fan-
tastic came into Valmond's manner.
"General," said he, "the centuries look down
on us as they looked down on him — your sire —
and mine ! "
He doffed his hat, and the hats of all likewise
came off in a strange quiet. A cheer followed,
and Valmond motioned for the wine to go round
freely. Then he got off his horse, and taking the
weeping old man by the arm, himself loosening
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 69
the^drum from his belt, .hey walked into the
"A cheerful bit of foolery and treason - " said
De la Rividre to Madame Chalice
m^r'^Vr'' ^''*^"""'' ''■ J-™ ""'y ''^d "■O'-e I.U-
mor and ess patriotism ! " she answered. •■ Trea
son may have its virtues. It certainly is interesl
.ng, wh,ch, m your present gloomy state, ylu are
"I wonder, madame, that you can countenance
this imposture," he broke out.
"Excellent and superior monsieur, I wonder
sometimes that I can countenance you Break as
with me on Sunday, and perhaps 'l will e,l you
why— at twelve o'clock." ^
cafriage."'' ""' """' "'"""^' '^"^ ^''''' ^•"■'P^d ''^^
He fingered the gold cross upon his breast-she
had given it to him two years before
ml'i ""H ^°'"f '° ''°""'=' him-Monsieur Val-
mond, he said. Then, with a sigh .•■. He sent
me two hundred dollars for th alfar to-day and
fifty dollars ,0 buy new cassocks for myself."'
Come m the morning and tell me what he
As she looked from her window an hour later
mX n "-^ 'T'"- ="'" "" f™- "- V a^e
ll
mi
i
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} ,
70 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
But Elise Malboir had a keener interest that
night, forValmond and Parpon brought her uncle,
" General Lagroin," in honor to her mother's cot-
tage ; and she sat listening dreamily as Valmond
and the old man talked of great things to be done.
t
that
»cle,
cot-
lond
one.
CHAPTER VI
FrINCE or plebeian. Valmond played his part
with equal aplomb at the simple home of Elise
Malboir, and at the Manor Hilaire where Madame
Chalice received him. On this occasion there was
nothing bizarre in Vahnond's dress. He was in
black-long coat, silk stockings, the collar of his
waistcoat faced with white, his neckerchief white
and full, his enamelled shoes adorned with silver
buckles. His present repose and decorum con-
trasted strangely with the fanciful display at his
first introduction. Madame Chalice approved in-
stantly. for though the costume was in itself an
affectation, previous to the time by a generation
It was m the picture, was sedately refined. She
welcomed him in the salon where many another
distinguished man had been entertained, from
Frontenac. and Vaudreuil, down to Sir Guy Carle-
ton. The Manor belonged to her husband's peo-
pie seventy.five years before, and though, as a
banker in New York, Monsieur Chalice had be-
come an American of the Americans, at her re-
quest he had bought back from a kinsman the old
place as it stood, furniture and all. Bringing the
antique plate, china, and bric-a-brac, made in
France when Henri Quatre was king, she had fared
\\
>f
t!
%
\ 1
M
HP
72
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
■^ .1
1
if
away to Quebec, set the old mansion in order, and
was happy for a whole summer, as was her hus-
band, the best of fishermen and sportsmen.
The Manor stood on a knoll, behind which,
steppe on steppe, climbed the hills, till they ended
in Dalgrothe Mountain. Beyond the mountain
were unexplored regions, hill and valley floating
into hill and valley, lost in a miasmic haze, ruddy,
silent, untenanted, save mayhap by the strange
people known as the Little Good Folk of the Scarlet
Hills.
The house had been built in the seventeenth
century, and the walls were very thick, to keep
out both cold and attack. Beneath the high
pointed roof were big dormer windows, and huge
chimneys flanked each side of the house. The
great roof gave a sense of crouching or hovering,
for warmth or in menace. As Valmond entered
the garden, Madame Chalice was leaning over the
lower half of the entrance door, which opened
latitudinally, and was hung on large iron hinges
of quaint design, made by some seventeenth cen-
tury forgeron. Behind her deepened hospitably
the spacious hall, studded and heavy beamed, with
its unpainted pine ceiling toned to a good brown
by smoke and time. Caribou and moose antlers
hung along the wall, with arquebuses, powder-
horns, and big shot bags, swords, and even pieces
of armor, such as Cartier brought with him from
St. Malo.
Madame Chalice looked out of this ancient ave-
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC y^
nue, a contrast yet a harmony; for. though her
dress was modern, her person had a rare touch of
the archaic, and fitted into the picture like a piece
of beautiful porcelain, colored long before the art
of making fadeless dyes was lost.
There was an amused, meditative smiling at
her lips, a kind of wonder, the flush of a new ex-
perience. She turned, and, stepping softly into the
salon, seated herself near the immense chimney
m a heavily carved chair, her feet lost in the rich
furs on the polished floor. A table at her hand
inlaid with antique silver, was dotted with rare
old books and miniatures, and behind her ticked
an ancient clock in a tall mahogany case.
Valmond came forward, hat in hand, and raised
to his hps the fingers she gave him. He did it
with the vagueness of one in a dream, she thought
and she neither understood nor relished his un'
complimentary abstraction ; so she straightway
determined to give him some troublesome mo-
ments.
" I have waited to drink my coffee with you,"
she said, motioning him to a seat. " And you may
smoke a cigarette, if you wish."
Her eyes wandered over his costume with criti-
cal satisfaction.
He waved his hand slightly, declining the per-
mission, and looked at her with an intent serious-
ness which took no account of the immediate
charm of her presence.
" I'd like to ask you a question," he said, with-
ill
.1
-^"
11 )
74
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
1
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)
li
Is
1. 1 '•,
1
out preamble. She was amused, interested.
Here was an unusual man, who ignored the con-
ventional preliminary nothings, beating down the
grass before the play, as it were.
" I was never good at catechism," she answered.
•• But I will be as hospitable as I can."
"I've felt," he said, "that you can — can see
throug'i things ; that you can balance them, that
you get at all sides, and "
She had been reading Napoleon's letters this
very afternoon.
"Full squared ? " she interrupted quizzically.
"As the Great Emperor said," he answered.
"A woman sees farther than a man, and if she
has judgment as well, she's the best prophet in
the world."
" It sounds distinctly like a compliment," she
answered. " You are trying to break that
square ! "
She was a little mystified ; he was different from
any man she had ever entertained. She was not
half sure she liked it. Yet if he were in very truth
a prince — she thought smilingly of his d^but in
flowered waistcoat, panama hat, and enamelled
boots ! — she should take this confidence as a com-
pliment ; if he were a barber, she could not resent
it ; she could not waste wit or time, she could not
even, in extremity, call the servant to show the bar-
ber out ; and in any case she was too comfortably
interested to worry herself with speculation.
" I want to ask you," he said earnestly, " what
1 s
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 75
is ;he thing most needed to make a great idea
succeed."
' I have never had a great idea," she replied.
lie looked at her eagerly, with eyes that were
almost boy-like.
" ^ow simple, and yet how astute he is ! " she
thoufht, remembering the event of yesterday.
"I thought you had, I was sure you had," he
said n a troubled sort of way. He did not see
that die was eluding him.
"I mean, I never had a fixed and definite idea
that ' proceeded to apply, as you have done," she
explained tentatively. " But— well, I suppose that
tie Irst requisite for success is absolute belief in
frie idea ; that it be part of one's life, to suffer for,
0 fight for, to die for, if need be— though this
jounds like a hand-book of moral mottoes, doesn't
It?"
" That's it, that's it," he said. " The thing must
be in your bones — hein f "
"Also, in— your blood— //m/ .? " she rejoined
slowly and meaningly, looking over the top of her
coffee-cup at him. Somehow again the plebeian
quality in that /lein grated on her, and she could
not resist the retort.
"What!" said he, confusedly, plunging into
another pitfall. She had challenged him, and he
knew it.
" Nothing what— ever," she answered with an
urbanity that defied the suggestion of malice.
Yet, now that she remembered, she had sweetly
76
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
^
k .
I'/
challenged one of a royal house for the like lapse
into the vulgar tongue. A man should not l)e
beheaded because of a ivhat. So she continitjd
more gravely: "The idea must be himself, all
of him, born with him, the rightful output of his
own nature, the thing he must inevitably dc, or
waste his life."
She looked him honestly in the eyes. She had
spoken with the soft malice of truth, the Wind
tyranny of the just. She had meant to test him
here and there by throwing little darts of sitire,
and yet he made her serious and candid in ipite
of herself. He did not concern her as a man of
personal or social possibilities — merely as an ac;ivt
originality, who was kin to her in some part of her
nature. Leaning back languidly, she was eying
him closely from under drooping lids, smiling, too,
in an unimportant sort of way, as if what she had
said was but a trifle.
Consummate liar and comedian, or true man
and no pretender, his eyes did not falter. They
were absorbed as if in eager study of a theme.
" Yes, yes, that's it ; and if he has it, what
next ? " said he, meaningly.
" Well, then, opportunity, joined to coolness,
knowledge of men, power of combination, strategy,
and " — she paused, and a purely feminine curi-
osity impelled her to add suggestively — " and a
woman."
He nodded. " And a woman," he repeated
after her, musingly, and not turning it to account
<>
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
n
cavalierly, as he might have done. She saw that
he was taking himself with a simple seriousness,
that appealed to her.
" You may put strategy out of the definition,
leaving in the woman," she added ironically.
He felt the point, and her demure dart struck
home. But he saw what an ally she might make.
Tremendous possibilities moved before him. His
heart beat faster than it did yesterday when the
old sergeant faced him. Here was beauty — he
admired that; power — he wished for that. What
might he not accomplish, no matter how wild his
adventure, with this wonderful creature as his
friend, his ally, his — he paused, remembering this
house had a master as well as a mistress,
" We will leave in the woman," he said quietly,
yet with a sort of trouble in his face.
" In your idea ? " was the negligent question.
"Yes."
" Where is the woman } " insinuated the soft,
bewildering voice.
" Here," he answered emotionally ; and he
believed it was the truth. She stood looking med-
itatively out of the window, not at him.
" In Pontiac .'' " she asked presently, turning
with a childlike surprise. "Ah! yes, yes, I
know — one of the people ; quite suitable for Pon-
tiac ; but is it wise ? She is pretty — but is it
wise ? "
She was adroitly suggesting Elise Malboir,
whose little romance she had discovered.
»d=
f.'
78
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
f .
I
II.' N,
^ 1
^'
I
U
>', f
>v
"She is the prettiest and wisest lady I ever
knew, or ever hope to know," he said earnestly,
laying his hand upon his heart.
" How far will your idea take you ? " she asked
evasively, her small fingers tightening a gold
hairpin.
"To Paris, to the Tuileries ! " he answered,
rising to his feet.
" And you start — from Pontiac ? "
" What difference, Pontiac or Cannes, like the
great master after Elbe," he said. "The prin-
ciple is the same."
"The money?"
"It will come," he answered. " I have friends
— and hopes."
She laughed aloud. She was suddenly struck
by the grotesqueness of the situation. But she
saw how she had hurt him, and she said with
instant gravity :
" Of course, with those one may go far. Sit
down and tell me all your plans."
He was about to comply, when, glancing out
of the window, she saw the old sergeant, now
"General" Lagroin, and Parpon hastening up the
walk. Parpon ambled comfortably beside the
old man, who seemed ten years younger than he
had done the day before.
"Your army and cabinet, monseigneur," she
said, with a pretty mocking gesture of salutation.
He glanced at her reprovingly. " My gen-
eral, and my minister; as brave a soldier, and
t
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
79
as able a ounsellor as ever prince had. Ma-
dame," he aclded, " they only are farceiirs who
do not dare, and have not wisdom. My general
has scars from Aucrstadt, Austerlitz, and Water-
loo ; my minister is feared — in Pontiac. Was he
not the trusted friend of the Grand Seigneur, as
he was called here, the father of your Monsieur
De la Riviere ? Has he yet erred in advising me ?
Have we yet failed ? Madame," he added, a
little rhetorically, " as we have begun, so will
we end, true to our principles, and "
" And gentlemen of the king," she quoted pro-
vokingly, urging him on.
" Pardon, gentlemen of the Empire, madame,
as time and our lives will prove. . . . Madame,
I thank you for your violets of Sunday last."
She admired the acumen that had seized the
perfect opportunity to thank her for the violets,
the badge of the Great Emperor.
"My hives shall not be empty of bees — or
honey," she said, alluding to the imperial bees,
and she touched his arm in a pretty, gracious
fashion.
" Madame — ah, madame ! " he replied, and his
eyes grew moist.
She bade the servant admit Lagroin and Par-
pon. They bowed profoundly, first to Valmond,
and afterwards to Madame Chalice. She noted
the distinction, and it amused her. She read in the
old man's eye the soldier's contempt for women,
together with his new-born reverence and love
\ ^\
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80
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
'/^
H i
for Valmond. Lagroin was still dressed in the
uniform of the Old Guard, and wore on his breast
the sacred ribbon which Valmond had given him
the day before.
"Well, General ? " said Valmond.
" Sire," said the old man, " they mock us in the
streets. Come to the window, sire."
The sire fell on the ears of Madame Chalice
like a mo^ in a play ; but Valmond, living up to
his part, was grave and considerate. He walked
to the window, and the old man said :
" Sire, do you not hear a drum ? "
A faint rat-tat came up the road. Valmond
bowed.
"Sire," the old man continued, "I would not
act till I had your orders."
" Whence comes the mockery ? " Valmond
asked quietly.
The other shook his head. " Sire, I do not know.
But I remember of such a thing happening to the
Emperor. It was in the garden of the Tuileries,
and twenty-four battalions of the Old Guard filed
past our great chief. Some fool sent out a gamin
dressed in regimentals in front of one of the
bands, and then "
" Enough, General," said Valmond, " I under-
stand. I will go down into the village — eh, mon-
sieur?" he added, turning to Parpon with im-
pressive consideration.
"Sire, there is one behind these mockers," an-
swered the little man, in a low voice.
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
8l
Valmond turned toward Madame Chalice. " I
know my enemy, madame," he said.
" Your enemy is not here," she rejoined kindly.
He stooped over her hand and kissed it, and
bowed 1 rtgroin and Parpon to the door.
*' Madame," he said, " I thank you. Will you
accept a souvenir of him whom we both love,
martyr and friend of France?"
He drew from his breast a small painting of
Napoleon, on ivory, and handed it to her.
" It was the work of David," he continued.
" You will find it well authenticated. Look upon
the back of it." She looked, and her heart beat
a little faster.
"This was done when he was alive?" she
said.
" For the King of Rome," he replied. " Adieu,
madame. Again I thank you, for our cause as
for myself."
He turned away. She let him go as far as the
door.
"Wait, wait," she said suddenly, a warm light
in her face, for her imagination had been touched,
" tell me, tell me the truth. Who are you ? Are
you really a Napoleon ? I can be a good friend,
a constant ally, but I charge you, speak the truth
to me. Are you—?" She stopped abruptly^
" No, no ; do not tell me," she added quickly. " If
you are not what you claim, you will be your own
executioner. I will ask for no further proof than
did Sergeant Lagroin. It is in a small way yet.
r
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82
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
,:
(I
but you are playing a terrible game. Do you
realize what may happen ? "
"In the hour that you ask a last proof I will
give it," he said, almost fiercely. "I go now to
meet an enemy."
" If I should change that enemy into a friend — "
she hinted.
" Then I should have no need of stratagem or
force."
" Force ? " she asked suggestively. The drollery
of it set her smiling.
"In a week I shall have five hundred men."
"Dreamer ! " she thought, and shook her head
dubiously ; but, glancing again at the ivory por-
Irait, her mood changed.
" Au revoir," she said, " come and tell me about
the mockers. Success go with you — sire."
Yet she hardly knew whether she thought him
sire or sinner, gentleman or comedian, as she
watched him go down the hill with Lagroin and
Parpon. But she had the portrait. How did he
get it ? No matter, it was hers now.
Curious to know more of the episode in the vil-
lage below, she ordered her carriage, and came
driving slowly past the Louis Quinze at an excit-
ing moment. A crowd had gathered, and boys
and even women were laughing and singing in
ridicule snatches of, "Vive A\ipo/^on /" For, in
derision of yesterday's event, a small boy, tricked
out with a paper cocked hat and incongruous
regimentals, with a hobby-horse between his legs,
(^
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
S3
in
in
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us
was marching up and down, preceded by another
lad, who played a toy drum in mockery of La-
groin. The children had been well rehearsed,
for evrn as Valmoiul arrived upon the scene. La-
groin and Parpon on either side of him, the mock
Valmond was bidding the drummer, " Play up the
feet of the army."
The crowd parted on either side, silenced and
awed by the look of potential purpose in the face
of this yesterday's hero. The old sergeant's glance
was full of fury, Parpon's of a devilish sort of glee.
Valmond approached the lads.
"My children," he said kindly, "you have not
learned your lesson well enough. You shall be
t.'.ught." He took the paper caps from their heads.
" I will give you better caps than these." He took
the hobby-horse, the drum, and the tin swords.
"I will give you better things than these." He
put the caps on the ground, added the toys to the
heap, and Parpon, stooping, lighted the paper.
Then scattering money among the crowd, and
giving some silver to the lads, Valmond stood
looking at the bonfire for a moment, and pointing
to it dramatically said :
" My friends, my brothers. Frenchmen, we will
light larger fires than these. Your young Seign-
eur sought to do me honor this afternoon. I
thank him, and he shall have proof of my affection
in good time. And now our good landlord's wine
is free to you, for one goblet each. — My children,"
he added, turning to the little mockers, " come to
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84
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
me to-morrow, and I will show you how to be
soldiers. My general shall teach you what to do,
and I will teach you what to say."
Valmond had conquered. Almost instantly
there arose the old admiring cries of, " Five Napo-
leon / " and he knew that he had regained his
ground. Amid the pleasant tumult the three
entered the hotel together, like people in a
play.
As they were going up the stairs, the dwarf
whispered to the old soldier, who laid his hand
fiercely upon the fine sword at his side, given him
that morning by Valmond. Looking down. La-
groin saw the young Seigneur maliciously laugh-
ing at them, as if in delight at the mischief he
had caused.
That night, at nine o'clock, the old sergeant
went to the Seigneury, knocked, and was admitted
to a room where were seated the young Seigneur,
Medallion, and the avocat.
"Well, General," said De la Riviere, rising with
great formality, " what may I do to serve you ?
Will you join our party ? " He motioned to a chair.
The old man's lips were set and stern, and he
vouchsafed no reply to the hospitable request.
" Monsieur," he said, "to-day you threw dirt at
my great master. He is of royal blood, and he
may not fight you. But I, monsieur, his general,
demand satisfaction — swords or pistols ! "
De la Riviere sat dow leaned back in his chair,
and laughed. Without a word the old man stepped
Hi
WHExN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 85
forward and struck him across the mouth with his
red cotton handkerchief.
"Then take that, monsieur," said he, "from one
who fought for the First Napoleon, and will ficrht
for this Napoleon against the tongue of slander
and the acts of fools. I killed two Prussians once
for saynig that the Great Emperor's shirt stuck out
below his waistcoat. You'll find me at the Louis
Quinze," he added, before De la Riviere, chokino-
with wrath, could do more than get to his feet""-
and, wheeling, he left the room.
The young Seigneur would have followed him
but the avocat laid a restraining hand upon his
arm, and Medallion said : •■ Dear Seigneur see
you can't fight him. The narish would 'only
laugh." ^
De la Riviere accepted the advice, and on Sun-
day, over the coffee, unburdened the tale to
Madame Chalice. Contrary to his expectations,
she laughed a great deal, then soothed his wounded
feelings, and counselled him as Medallion had
done. And because Valmond commanded the old
sergeant to silence, the matter ended for the mo-
ment. But it would have its hour yet, and Val-
mond knew this as well as the young Seigneur
li^
ttmamm
CHAPTER VII
I
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P •'
T was no vain boast of Valmond's that he
would, or could, have five hundred followers in
two weeks. Lagroin and Parpon were busy, each
in his own way — Lagroin, open, bluff, impera-
tive ; Parpon, silent, acute, shrewd. Two days
before the feast of St. John the Baptist, the two
made a special tour through the parish for certain
recruits. If these could be enlisted, a great many
men of this and other parishes would follow. They
were Muroc the charcoalman, Duclosse the meal-
man, Lajeunesse the blacksmith, and Garotte the
limeburner, all men of note, after their kind, with
influence ai.d individuality.
These four comrades were often to be found
together about the noon hour in the shop of
Jos6 Lajeunesse. They formed the coterie of the
humble, even as the Curb's coterie represented the
aristocracy of Pontiac — with Medallion as a con-
necting link.
Lagroin chafed that he must be recruiting ser-
geant and general also. But it gave him comfort
to remember that the Great Emperor had not at
times disdained to play the same rolt ; that, after
Friedland, he himself had been taken into the Old
Guard by the Emperor ; that Davoust had called
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 87
him brother; that Ney had eaten supper and slept
with him under the same blanket. Parpon would
gladly have done this work alone, but he knew
that Lagroin in his regimentals would be useful.
Arches and poles were being put up to be deco-
rated against the feast-day, and piles of wood for
bonfires were arranged at points on the hills round
the village. Cheer and good-will were everywhere,
for a fine harvest was in view, and this feast-day
always brought gladness and simple revelling.
Parish interchanged with parish ; but, because it
was so remote, Pontiac was its own goal of pleas-
ure, and few fared forth, though others came from
Ville Bambord and elsewhere to join the ///^.
As Lagroin and the dwarf approached to the door
of the smithy, they heard the loud laugh of La-
jeunesse.
-'Good!" said Parpon. "Hear how he tears
his throat."
" If he has sense I'll make a captain of him,"
remarked Lagroin, consequentially.
"You shall beat him into a captain on his own
anvil," rejoined the little man.
They entered the shop. Lajeunesse was lean-
mg on his bellows, laughing, and holding an iron
m the spitting fire ; Aluroc was seated on the edge
of the cooling tub, and Duclosse was resting on a
bag of his excellent meal ; Garotte was the only
missing member of the quartette.
Muroc was a wag, a grim sort of fellow, black
from his trade, with big rollicking eyes. At times
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88
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
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it
he was not easy to please, but if he took a liking he
was for joking at once. He approved of Parpon,
and never lost a chance of sharpening his humor
on the dwarfs impish whetstone of a tongue.
" Lord ! Lord ! " he cried, with feigned awe,
getting to his feet at sight of the two. Then he
said to his comrades : "Children, children, off with
your hats. Here is Monsieur Talleyrand, if I'm
not mistaken. Onto your feet, mealman, and dust
your stomach. Lajeunesse, wipe your face with
your leather. Duck your heads, stupids ! "
With mock solemnity the three greeted Parpon
and Lagroin. The old sergeant's face flushed, and
his hand dropped to his sword ; but he had prom-
ised Parpon to say nothing till he got his cue, and
he would keep his word. So he disposed himself
in an attitude of martial attention. The dwarf
bowed to the others with a face of as great gravity
as the charcoalman's, and waving his hand said :
" Keep your seats, my children, and God be with
you. You are right, smutty-face ; I am Monsieur
Talleyrand, minister of the Crown."
"The devil, you say ! " cried the mealman.
" Tut, tut," said Lajeunesse, chaffing, '* haven't
you heard the news ? The devil is dead ! "
Parpon's hand vent into his pocket. " My poor
orphan," said he, trotting over and thrusting some
silver into the blacksmith's pocket, " I see he
hasn't left you w^ell off. Accept my humble gift."
"The devil dead! " c ' *d Muroc, with a loud
guffaw ; " then I'll go marry his daughter now."
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 89
The dwarf c^'mbetl up on a pile of untired
wheels, and, with an elfish grin, began singing.
Instantly the three humorists became silent, and
listened, the blacksmith pumping his bellows
mechanically the while.
" O meal man white, give me your daughter,
Oh, give her to me, your sweet Suzon !
O mealman dear, you can do no better.
For I have a chateau at Malmaison,
" Black charcoalman, you shall not have her,
She shall not marry you, my Su;:on —
A bag of meal and a sack of carbon !
A^on, noil, non, non, non, non, vott, non !
Go look at your face, my fanfaron.
My daughter and you would be night and day.
Your face would frighten the crows away.
Non, von, non, non, non, non, non, non.
You shall not marry her, my .Suzon."
A better weapon than his waspish tongue was
Parpen's voice, for it, before all, was persuasive. A
few years before, none of them had ever heard him
sing. An accident discovered it, and afterwards
he sang for them but little, and never when it
was expected of him. He might be the minister
of a dauphin, or a fool, but he was now only the
mysterious Parpon who thrilled them. All the soul
cramped in the small body was showing in his
eyes, as on that day when he had sung at the
Louis Ouinze.
A face, unseen by the others, suddenly appeared
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90
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
\i Pi
at a little door just opposite him. It belonged
to Madelinette, the daughter of Lajeunesse, who
had a voice of merit. More than once the dwarf
had stopped to hear her singing as he passed the
smithy. She sang only the old chansons and the
lays of the voyagcurs, with a far greater sweet-
ness and richness, however, than any in the par-
ish ; and the Cur^ could detect her among all others
at mass. She had been taught her notes, but that
had only opened up possibilities, and fretted her
till she was unhappy. What she felt she could
not put into her singing, for the machinery, un-
known and tyrannical, was not hers. Twice be-
fore she had heard Parpon sing — at mass when the
miller's wife was buried, and he, forgetting the
world, had poured forth all his beautiful voice ; and
on that notable night on the veranda of the Louis
Ouinze. If he would but teach her those songs
of his, give her that sound of an organ in her
throat !
Parpon guessed what she thought. Well, he
would see what could be done, if the blacksmith
would join Valmond's standard.
He stopped singing.
" That's as good as dear Caron, the vivandiere
of the Third Corps. Blood o' my body, I believe it's
better — almost ! " said Lagroin, nodding his head
patronizingly. " She dragged me from under the
mare of a damned Russian that cut me down,
before he got my bayonet in his liver. Caron !
Caron ! ah, yes, brave Caron, my dear Caron ! "
\ I
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
91
said the old man, smilinjj through the golden light
that the song had made for him, as he looked
behind the curtain of the years.
Parpon's pleasant ridicule was not lost on the
charcoalman and the mealman, but neither was
the singing wasted, and their faces were touched
with admiration, while the blacksmith, with a
sigh, turned to his fire and blew the bellows
softly.
" Blacksmith," said Parpon, "you have a bird
that sings."
" I've no bird that sings like that, though she
has pretty notes, my bird." He sighed again.
"'Come, blacksmith,' said the Count Lassone,
when he came here a-fishing, 'that's a voice for a
palace,' said he. ' Take it out of the woods and
teach it,' said he, ' and it will have all Paris follow-
ing it.' That to me, a poor blacksmith, with only
my bread and sour milk, and a hundred dollars a
year or so, and a sup of brandy when I can get it."
The charcoalman spoke up. "You'll not forget
the indulgences folks give you more than the pay
for setting the dropped shoe — true gifts of God,
bought with good butter and eggs at the holy
auction, blacksmith. I gave you two myself. You
have your blessings, Lajeunesse."
"So, and no one to use the indulgences but you
and Madelinette, giant," said the fat mealman.
" Ay, thank the Lord, we've done well that way,"
said the blacksmith, drawing himself up, for he
loved nothing better than to be called the giant,
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WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
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though he was known to many as ^etif enfant, in
irony of his size.
Lagroin was becoming impatient. He could not
see the drift of this, and he was about to whisper
to Parpon, when the little man sent him a look,
commanding silence, and he fretted on dumbly.
"See, my blacksmith," said Parpon, "'your bird
shall be taught to sing, and to Paris she shall go
by and by."
" Such foolery ! " said Duclosse.
'• What's in your noddle, Parpon ? " cried the
charcoalman.
The blacksmith looked at Parpon, his face all
puzzled eagerness, while another face at the door
grew pale with suspense. Parpon quickly turned
towards it.
" See here, Madelinette," he said in a low voice.
The girl stepped inside, and came to her father.
Lajeunesse's arm ran round her shoulder. There
was no corner of his heart into which she had not
crept.
"Out with it, Parpon," called the blacksmith,
hoarsely, for the daughter's voice had followed her-
self into those farthest corners of his rugged
nature.
" I will teach her to sing first ; she shall go to
Quebec, and afterwards to Paris, my friend," he
answered.
The girl's eyes were dilating with great joy.
" Ah, Parpon, good Parpon ! " she whispered.
" But Paris ! Paris ! There's gossip for you,
I
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
93
thick as mortar," cried the charcoalman. and the
mealman's fingers beat a jeering tattoo on his
stomach.
Parpon waved his hand. " Look to the weevil
in your meal, Duclosse ; and you, smutty-face, leave
true things to your betters. Mind what I say,
blacksmith," he added, "she shall go to Quebec,
and after that to Paris." Here he got off the wheels
and steppid out into the centre of the shop. •• Our
master will do that for you. I swear for him, and
who can say that Parpon was ever a liar ? "
The blacksmith's hand tightened on his daugh-
ter's shoulder. He was trembling with excitement.
"Is it true? Is it true?" he asked, and the
sweat stood out on his forehead.
" He sends this for Madelinette," answered the
dwarf, handing over a little bag of gold to the girl,
who drew back. But Parpon went close to her
and gently forced it into her hands.
"Open it," he said. She did so, and the black-
smith's eyes gloated on the gold. Muroc and Du-
closse drew near, and so they stood for a little
while, all looking and exclaiming.
Presently Lajeunesse scratched his head. " No-
body does nothing for nothing," said he. " What
horse do I shoe for this ? "
" La, la ! " said the charcoalman, sticking a
thumb in the blacksmith's side, " you only give
him the happy hand — like that ! "
Duclosse was more serious. " It is the will of
God that you become a marshal or a duke," he
f
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94
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
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said wheezingly. " You can't say no ; it is the
will of God, and you must bear it like a man."
The child saw further ; perhaps the artistic strain
in her gave her keener reasoning.
" Father," she said, " Monsieur Valmond wants
you for a soldier."
"Wants mef" he roared in astonishment.
•' Who's to shoe the horses a week days, and
throw the weight o' Sundays after mass ? Who's
to handle a stick for the Cur6 when there's fight-
ing among the river-men ? But, there, la, la 1
many a time my wife, my good Florienne, said to
me, ' Josd — Jos6 Lajeunesse, with a chest like yours,
you ought to be a corporal at least.' "
Parpon beckoned to Lagroin, and nodded.
•' Corporal ! corporal ! " said Lagroin ; " in a
week you shall be a lieutenant, and a month
shall make you a captain, and maybe better than
that ! "
" Better than that — bagosh ! " cried the char-
coalman, in surprise, proudly using the innocuous
English oath.
" Better than that ; sutler, maybe ? " said the
mealman, smacking his lips.
•• Better than that," replied Lagroin, swelling
with importance. " Ay, ay, my dears, great
things are for you. I command the army, and
I have free hand from my master. Ah, what
joy to serve a Napoleon once again ! What joy 1
Lord, how I remember "
"Better than that— eh?" persisted Duclosse,
T
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
95
perspiring, the meal on his face making a sort of
paste.
" A general or a governor, my children," said
Lagroin. "First in, first served. Best men, best
pickings. But every man must love his chief, and
serve him with blood and bayonet, and march o'
nights if need, and limber up the guns if need, and
shoe a horse if need, and draw a cork if need, and
cook a potato if need, and be a hussar, or a tirail-
leur, or a trencher, or a general, if need. But yes,
that's it ; no pride but the love of France and the
cause, and "
" And Monsieur Valmond," said the charcoal-
man, slyly.
" And Monsieur the Emperor ! " cried Lagroin,
savagely.
He caught Parpon's eye, and instantly his hand
went to his pocket.
" Ah, he is a comrade, that ! Nothing is too
good for his friends, for his soldiers. See ! " he
added more calmly.
He took from his pocket ten gold pieces.
•"These are bagatelles,' said his Excellency to
me ; ' but tell my friends. Monsieur Muroc, and
Monsieur Duclosse, and Monsieur Lajeunesse, and
Monsieur Garotte, that they are buttons for the
coats of my sergeants, and that my captains' coats
have ten times as many buttons. Tell them,' said
he, ' that my friends shall share my fortunes ; that
France needs us ; that Pontiac shall be called the
nest of heroes. Tell them that I will come to
' il
f'
96
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
/rf'
them at nine o'clock to-night, and we will swear
fidelity.'"
" And a damned good speech too — bagosh ! "
cried the mealman, his fingers hungering for the
gold pieces.
•' We're to be captains pretty soon — eh ? "
asked Muroc.
" As quick as I've taught you to handle a com-
pany," answered Lagroin, with importance.
" I was a patriot in '37," said Muroc. " I went
against the English ; I held a bridge for two
hours. I have my musket yet."
"I am a patriot now," urged Duclosse. "Why
the devil not the English first, then go to France,
and lick the Bourbons ! "
" They're a skittish lot, the Bourbons ; they
might take it in their heads to fight," suggested
Muroc, with a grin.
" What the devil do you expect ? " roared the
blacksmith, blowing the bellows hard in his excite-
ment, one arm still round his daughter's shoulder.
•' D'you think we're going to play leap-frog into
the Tuileries ? There's blood to let, and we're to
let it ! "
"Good, my leeches!" cried the dwarf, "you
shall have blood to suck. But we'll leave the
English be. France first, then our dogs will take
a snap at the flag on the citadel yonder." He
nodded in the direction of Quebec.
Lagroin then put five gold pieces each in the
hands of Muroc and Duclosse, and said :
1'
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
97
••I here take you into the service of Prince
Valmond Napoleon, and you do hereby swear to
serve him loyally, even to the shedding of your
blood, for his honor and the honor of France ; and
you do also vow to require a like loyalty and obe-
dience of all men under your command. Swear."
There was a slight pause, for the old man's
voice had the ring of a fatal earnestness. It was
no farce, but a real thing.
" Swear," he said again. " Raise your right
hand."
" Done ! " said Muroc. " To the devil with the
charcoal. I'll go wash my face."
" There's my hand on it," added Duclosse ; " but
that rascal Petrie will get my trade, and I'd rather
be strung by the Bourbons than that."
" Till I've no more wind in my bellows,"
responded Lajeunesse, raising his hand, "if he
keeps faith with my Madelinette."
" On the honor of a soldier," said Lagroin, and
he crossed himself.
'' God save us all ! " cried Parpon.
Obeying a motion of the dwarfs hand, Lagroin
then drew from his pocket a flask of cognac, with
five little tin cups fitting into each other. Hand-
ing one to each, he poured them brimming full.
Filling his own, he spilled a little in the steely dust
of the smithy floor. All did the same, though they
knew not why.
" What's that for ?" asked the mealman.
"To show the Little Corporal, dear Corporal
7
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1^1
I
98
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
Violet, and my comrades of the Old Guard, that
we don't forget them," cried Lagroin.
He drank slowly, holding his head far back,
and as he brought it straight again, he swung
on his heel, for two tears were racing down his
cheeks.
The mealman wiped his eyes in sympathy ; the
charcoalman shook his head at the blacksmith, as
though to say, " Pojr devil ! " and Parpon straight-
way filled their glasses again. Madelinette took
the flask to the old sergeant. He looked at her
kindly, and patted her shoulder. Then he raised
his glass.
•' Ah, the brave Caron, the dear Lucette Caron !
Ah, the time she dragged me from under the
Russian mare ! " he said. He smiled into the
distance. '* Who can tell ? Perhaps, perhaps —
again ! "
Then, all at once, as if conscious of the pitiful
humor of his meditations, he came to his feet,
straightened his shoulders, and cried :
" To her we love best ! "
The charcoalman drank and smacked his lips.
"Yes, yes," he said, looking into the cup admir-
ingly, •• like mother's milk that ! White of my
eye, but I do love her ! "
The mealman cocked his eye toward the open
door. " ^lise ! " he said sentimentally, and drank.
The blacksmith kissed his daughter, and his
hand rested on her head as he lifted the cup, but
he said never a word.
r», !
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 99
Farpon took one sip, then poured his liquor
upon the ground, as though down there was what
he loved best ; but his eyes were turned to Dal-
grothe Mountain, which he could see through the
open door.
" France ! " cried the old soldier stoutly, and
tossed off the liquor.
• (I
W
'.,
,1^
CHAPTER VIII
1 HAT night Valmond and his three new re-
cruits, to whom Garotte the limeburner had been
added, met in the smithy and swore fealty to the
great cause. Lajeunesse, by virtue of his position
in the parish, and his former military experience,
was made a captain, and the others, sergeants of
companies yet unnamed and unformed. The
limeburner was a dry, thin man, of no particular
stature, who coughed a little between his sentences,
and had a habit, when not talking, of humming to
himself, as if in apology for his silence. This
humming had no sort of tune or purpose, and
was but a vague musical sputtering. He almost
perilled the gravity of the oath they all took to
Valmond, by this idiosyncrasy. His occupation
gave him a lean, arid look ; his hair was crisp and
straight, shooting out at all points, and it flew to
meet his cap as if it were alive. He was a genius
after a fashion, too, and at all the feasts and on
national holidays he invented some new feature
in the entertainments. With an eye for the gro-
tesque, he had formed a company of jovial blades,
called Kalathumpians, after the manner of the
mimes of old times in his beloved Dauphiny.
" All right, all right," he said, when Lagroin,
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC lOI
in the half-lighted blacksmith shop, asked him to
swear allegiance and service. " ' Brigadier, vous
avcz raison,'" he added, quoting a well-known
song. Ther he hummed a little and coughed.
" We must have a show " — he hummed again —
" we must tickle 'em up a bit — ho ! — touch 'em
where they're silly with a fiddle and fife — raddy
dee dee, ra dee, ra dee, ra dee ! " Then, to Val-
mond, '• We gave the fools who fought the Little
Corporal sour apples in Dauphiny, my dear ! "
He followed this extraordinary speech with a plan
for making an ingenious coup for Valmond, when
his Kalathumpians paraded the streets on the
evening of St. John's Day.
With hands clasped the new recruits sang :
" When from the war we come,
Allans gai !
Oh, when we ride back home.
If we be spared that day,
Ala luron lurette.
We'll laugh our scars away,
Afa luron lure.
We'll lift the latch and stay,
Ala luron lurL"
fes,
the
in.
The huge frame of the blacksmith, his love for
his daughter, his simple faith in this new creed of
patriotism, his tenderness of heart, joined to his
irascible disposition, spasmodic humor, and strong
arm, roused in Valmond an immediate liking,
as keen, after its kind, as that he had for the Cur6
102 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
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i
ii
and the avocat. With both of these he had had
long talks of late, on everything but purely personal
matters. They would have thought it a gross
breach of etiquette to question him on that which
he avoided. His admiration of them was com-
plete, although he sometimes laughed half sadly,
half whimsically, as he thought of their simple
faith in him.
At dusk on the eve of St. John the Baptist's Day,
after a long conference with Lagroin and Parpon,
Valmond went through the village, and came to
the smithy to talk with Lajeunesse. Those who
recognized him in passing took off their bonnets
rouges, some saying," Good night, your Highness,"
some, " How are you, monseigneur ? " some, " God
bless your Excellency," and a batch of bacchana-
lian river-men, who had been drinking, called him
"General," and insisted on embracing him, offer-
ing him cognac from their tin flasks.
The appearance among them of old Madame
Ddgardy shifted the good-natured attack. For
many a year, winter and summer, she had come
and gone in the parish, all rags and tatters, wear-
ing men's knee-boots and cap, her gray hair
hanging down in straggling curls, her lower lip
thrust out fiercely, her quick eyes wandering to
and fro, and her sharp tongue, like Parpon's,
clearing a path before her whichever way she
turned. On her arm she carried a little basket of
cakes and confitures, and these she dreamed she
sold, for they were few who bought of Crazy Joan.
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC I03
The Stout Stick she carried was as compelling as
her tongue, so that when the river-men surrounded
her in amicable derision, it was used treely, and
with a heart all kindness — '• for the good of their
souls," she said, "since the Curtf was too mild,
Mary in heaven bless him high and low ! "
For Madame D^gardy was the Curd's cbTmpion
everywhere, and he in turn was tender to vard
the homeless body, whose history even to h'm was
obscure, save in the few particulars t^ t he had
given to Valmond the last time they had met
In i\i::i: youth Madame D«*gardy was pretty and
much admired. Her lover had deserted her, and
in a fit of mad indignation and despair, she had
fled from the village, and vanished no one knew
whither, though it had been declared by a wander-
ing hunter that she had been seen in the far-off"
hills that march into the south, and that she lived
there with an uncouth mountaineer, who had
himself long been an outlaw from his kind. But
this had been mere g-- 3ip, and after twenty-five
years she came back tw Pontiac, a half-mad crea-
ture, and took up the thread of her life alone ; and
Parpon and the Curd saw that she suffered for
nothing in the hard winters,
Valmond left the river-men to the tyranny of her
tongue and stick, and came on to where the red
light of the forge showtd through the smithy win-
dow. As he neared the door, he heard singing.
The voice was singularly sweet, and another of
commoner calibre was joining in the refrain :
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104 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
" ' Oh, traveller, see where the red sparks rise.
(Fly away, my heart, fly away !)
But dark is the mist in the traveller's eyes.
(Fly away, my heart, fly away !)
' Oh, traveller, see, far down the gorge.
The crimson light from my father's forge.
(Fly away, my heart, fly away !)
" ' Oh, traveller, see you thy true love's grace.'
(Fly away, my heart, fly away !)
And now there is joy in the traveller's face.
(Fly away, my heart, fly away !)
Oh, wild does he ride through the rain and mire.
To greet his love by the smithy fire !
(Fly away, my heart, fly away !) "
In accompaniment some one was beating softly
on the anvil, and the bellows were blowing rhyth-v
mically. He lingered for a moment, loath to in-
terrupt the song, and then softly opened the upper
half of the door, for it was divided horizontally,
and leaned over the lower part.
Beside the bellows, her sleeves rolled up, her
glowing face cowled in her black hair, beauti-
ful and strong, stood Elise Malboir, pushing a
rod of steel into the sputtering coals. Over the
anvil, with a small bar caught in a pair of tongs,
hovered Madelinette, beating,' almost tenderly, the
red-hot point of the steel. The sound of the
iron hammer on the malleable metal was as muf-
fled silver, and the sparks flew out like jocund
fire-flies. She was making two hooks for het
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC lOS
kitchen wall, for she was clever at the forge, and
could shoe a horse if she were let to do so. She
was but half-turned to Valmond, but he caught the
pure outlines of her face and neck, her extreme
delicacy of expression, which had a subtle, pathetic
refinement, in acute contrast to the quick, abun-
dant health, the warm energy, the half-defiant
look of li!lise. It was an inspiring picture of labor
and life.
A dozen thoughts ran through Valmond's mind.
He was responsible, to an extent, for the happi-
ness of these two young creatures. He had prom-
ised to make a songstress of the one, to send her
to Paris, had roused in her wild, ambitious hopes
of fame and fortune — dreams that, in any case,
could be little like the real thing : fanciful visions
of conquest and golden living, where never the
breath of her hawthorn and wild violets entered ;
only sick perfumes as from an odalisque's fan, amid
the enervating splendor of indulgent boudoirs —
for she had read of these things.
In a vague, graceless sort of way, he had
worked upon the quick emotions of Elise. Every
little touch of courtesy had been returned to him
in half-shy, half-ardent glances ; in flushes which
the kiss he had given her the first day of their
meeting had made the signs of an intermittent
fever ; in modest yet alluring waylayings ; in rest-
less nights, in half-tuneful, half-silent days ; in a
sweet sort of petulance. She had kept in mind
everything he had said to her, the playfully emo-
r
I06 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
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tional pressure of her hand, his eloquent talks with
her uncle, the old sergeant's rhapsodies about him;
and there was no place in the room where he had
sat or stood, which she had not made sacred —
she the madcap, who had lovers by the dozen.
Importuned by the Cur6 and her mother to
marry, she had threatened, if they worried her
further, to wed fat Duclosse, the mealman, who
had courted her in a ponderous way for at least
three years.
The fire that corrodes, when it does not make
glorious without and within, was in her veins, and
when Valmond should call she was ready to come.
She could not see that if he were in truth a
Napoleon, she was not for him. Seized of that
wilful, daring spirit, called Love, her sight was
bounded by the little field wherein she strayed.
Her arm paused upon the lever of the bellows,
as she saw Valmond watching them from the
door. He took off his hat to them, as Madelinette
turned and said impulsively, " Ah,monseigneur !"
then waited, confused, i^lise did not move, but
stood looking at him, her eyes all flame, her
cheeks going a little pale, and flushing again.
She pushed her hair back with a quick motion,
and as he stepped inside and closed the door be-
hind him, she blew the bellows as if to give a
brighter light to the place. The fire flared up,
but there were corners in deep shadow. Val-
mond doffed his hat again and said ceremoniously,
" Mr demoiselle Lajeunesse, Mademoiselle £lise,
if
,<*
i
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC I07
pray do not stop your work. Let me sit here and
watch you."
Taking from his pocket a cigarette, he came
over to the forge, and was about to light it with
the red steel from the fire, when l^lise, snatching
up a tiny piece of wood, thrust it in the coals, and
drawing it out held it toward the cigarette, say-
ing : " Ah, no, your Excellency— this ! "
As Valmond reached to take it from her, he
heard a sound as of a hoarse breathing, coming
from the shadowy corner behind him, and turned
quickly; his outstretched hand touched lilise's
fingers, and closed on them involuntarily, all her
impulsive temperament and ardent life thrilling
through him. The shock of feeling brought his
eyes to hers with a sudden burning mastery. For
an instant their looks fused and were lost in a pas-
sionate affiance. Then, as 'f pulling himself out
of a dream, he released her fingers with a, " Par-
don—my child,"
As he did so, a cry ran through the smithy.
Madelinette was standing, tense and set with
terror, her eyes riveted on something that crouched
beside a pile of cartwheels a few feet away ; some-
thing with shaggy head, flaring eyes, and a devilish
face. The thing raised itself and sprang towards
her with a devouring cry. Leaping forward with
desperate swiftness, Valmond caught the half
man, half beast— it seemed that— by the throat ;
and Madelinette fell fainting against the anvil.
Valmond was in the grasp of a giant, and,
I
108 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
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I
(
Struggle as he might, he could not withstand the
powerful arms of his assailant. They came to
their knees on the ground, where they clutched
and strained for a wild minute, Valmond desper-
ately fighting to keep the huge bony fingers from
his neck. Suddenly the creature's knee touched
the red-hot steel that Madelinette had dropped,
and with a snarl he flung Valmond back against
the anvil, his head striking the iron with a sicken-
ing thud. Then, seizing the steel, he raised it to
plunge the still glowing point into his victim's eyes.
Centuries of doom seemed crowded into that in-
stant of time. Valmond caught the giant's wrist
with both hands, and with a mighty effort wrenched
himself aside. His heart seemed to strain and
burst, and just as he felt the end was come, he
heard something crash on the murderer's skull,
and the great creature fell with a gurgling sound,
and lay like a parcel of loose bones across his
knees. Valmond raised himself, a strange, dull
wonder on him, for as the weapon smote this life-
less thing, he had seen another hurl by and
strike the opposite wall. A moment afterwards
the dead man was pulled away by Parpon. Try-
ing to rise, he felt blood trickling down his neck,
and he turned sick and blind. As the world
slipped away from him, a soft shoulder caught his
head, and out of a great distance there came to
him a woman's wailing cry : •' He is dying ! my
love ! my love ! "
Peril and pain had brought to l^lise's breast
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
109
the one being in the world for her, the face that
had burned lii<e a picture upon her eyes and heart.
Parpon groaned with a strange horror as he
dragged the body from Valmond. For a moment
he knelt gasping beside the uncouth form, his
great hands spasmodically feeling the pulseless
breast.
Soon afterwards in the blacksmith's house the
two girls huddled together in each other's arms,
and Valmond, shaken and weak, returned to the
smithy.
In the dull glare of the forge fire knelt Parpon,
rocking back and forth beside the body. Hearing
him approach, the dwarf got to his feet.
" You have killed him," he said, pointing.
" No, no, not I," answered Valmond. " Some-
one threw a hammer."
"There were two hammers."
"It was Jilise ? " asked Valmond, with a shud-
der.
" No, not tUse ; it was you," said the dwarf,
with a strange insistence.
"I tell you no," said Valmond. " It was you,
Parpon."
" By God ! it is a lie ! " cried the dwarf, with a
groan. Then he came close to Valmond. " He
was— my brother ! Do you not see ? " he de-
manded fiercely, his eyes full of misery. " Do
you not see, that it was you who killed him ?
Yes, yes, it was you."
Stooping, Valmond caught the little man in an
^m
no WHEN V ALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
embrace. " It was I that killed him, Parpon. It
was I, comrade. You saved my life," he added
significantly.
" The girl threw, but missed," said the dwarf.
" She does not kaow but that she struck him."
" She must be told."
" I will tell her that you killed him. Leave it
to me — all to me, my grand seigneur ! "
A half hour afterwards the avocat, the C\ir6, the
Little Chemist, had heard the story as the dwarf
told it, and Valmond returned to the Louis
Quinze a hero. For hours the habitants gathered
under his window and cheered him.
Parpon sat long in gloomy silence by his side,
but at last, raising his voice, he began to sing
softly a lament for the lifeless body, lying alone in
a shed near the deserted smithy.
*' Children, the house is empty,
The house behind the tall hill ;
Lonely and still is the empty house.
There is no face in the doorway,
There is no fire in the chimney.
Come and gather beside the gate,
Little Good Folk of the Scarlet Hills.
"Where has the wild dog vanished ?
"Where has the swift foot gone ?
"Where is the hand that found the good fruit,
That made a garret of wholesome herbs ?
"Where is the voice that awoke the mom,
The tongue that defied the terrible beasts ?
Come and listen beside the door,
Little Good Folk of the Scarlet Hills."
it
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC III
The pathos of the chant almost made his lis-
tener shrink, so immediate and searching was it.
When the lament ceased there was a long silence,
broken by Valmond.
"He was your brother, Parpon— how ? Tell
me about it."
The dwarfs eyes looked into the distance.
*'It was in the far-off country," he said, "in
the hills where the Little Good Folk come. My
mother married an outlaw. Ah, he was cruel,
and an animal ! My brother Gabriel was born
—a giant, with brain all fumbling and wild.
Then I was born, so small, a head as a tub, and
long arms like a gorilla. We burrowed in the
hills, Gabriel and I. Then one day my mother,
because my father struck her, went mad, left us, and
came to—" He paused abruptly. "Then Gabriel
struck the man, and he died, and we buried him,
and my brother also left me, and I was alone.
Bye and bye I travelled to Pontiac. Once Gabriel
came down from the hills, and Lajeunesse burnt
him with a hot iron, for cutting his bellows
in the night, to make himself a bed inside
them. To-day he came again to do some ter-
rible thing to the blacksmith or the girl, and you
have seen— ah, the poor Gabriel, and I killed
him 1 "
"I killed him," said Valmond, "I, Parpon, my
friend."
" My poor fool, my wild dog," wailed the dwarf,
mournfully.
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112 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
'• Parpon," asked Valmond, suddenly, "where
is your mother ? "
" It is no matter. She has forgotten — she is
safe."
" If she should see him ! " said Valmond, tenta-
tively, for a sudden thought had come to him that
the mother of these misfits of God was Madame
D^gardy.
Parpon sprang to his feet. •' She shall not see
him. Ah, you know ! You have guessed ? " he
cried.
" She is all safe with me."
"She shall not see him. She shall not know,"
repeated the dwarf, his eyes huddling back in his
head with anguish.
" Does she not remember you ? "
"She does not remember the living, but she
would remember the dead. She shall not know,"
he cried again.
Then seizing Valmond's hand, he kissed it, and,
without a word, trotted from the room, a ludi-
crously pathetic figure.
-%
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CHAPTER IX
N.
OW and again the moon showed through the
cloudy night, and the air was soft and kind. Par-
pon left behind him the village street, and after
a half mile or more of travel came to a spot
where a crimson light showed beyond a little hill.
He halted a moment, as if to think and listen,
then crawled swiftly up the bank and looked
down. Beside a still smoking lime-kiln, an aban-
doned fire was burning down into red coals. The
little hut of the limeburner was beyond in a hollow,
and behind that again was a lean-to, like a small
shed or stable. Hither stole the dwarf, pausing on
his way to listen a moment at the door of the hut.
Leaning into the darkness of the shed he gave
a soft crooning call. A low growl came in quick
reply, followed by others. He stepped inside.
" Good dogs, good dogs, good Musket, CofTee,
Filthy, Jo-Jo— steady, steady, idiots!" for the
huge brutes were nosing him, throwing them-
selves against him, and whining gratefully. Feel-
ing against the wall he took down some harness,
and in the dark put a set on each dog— mere straps
for the shoulders, halters and traces; called to them
sharply to be quiet, and, keeping hold of their col-
8
Mi
114 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
'
!(.
(}
lars, led them out into the night. He paused to
listen again. Presently he drove the dogs across
the road, and attached them to a flat vehicle with-
out wheels or runners, used by Garotte for the
drawing of lime and stones. It was not so heavy
as many machines of the kind, and at a quick
word from the dwarf, the dogs darted away. Un-
seen, a mysterious figure hurried on "cer them,
keeping well in the shadow of the trees fringing the
side of the road.
Parpon drove the dogs down a lonely side lane
to the village, and came to the shed where lay the
uncouth thing, which he had called his brother.
He felt for a spot where there was a loose board,
forced it and another with his strong fingers, and
crawled in. Reappearing, with the body, he
bore it in his huge arms to the stone-boat : a
midget carrying a giant — a dreadful burden. He
covered up the face, and returning to the shed,
placed his coat against the boards to deaden the
sound, and hammered them tight again with a
stone, after having straightened the grass about.
He found the dogs cowering with a nameless fear,
for one of them had pushed the cloth off the dead
man's face with his nose. They crouched together,
whining and tugging at the traces. With a. quiet-
ing word he started them away.
The pursuing watchful figure followed at a dis-
tance, on up the road, on over the little hills, on
into the high hills, the dogs carrying along swiftly
the grisly load. And once their driver halted
■ < "f ' I
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 1 15
them, and sat in the gray gloom and dust beside
the dead man.
"Where do you go. dwarf?" he said aloud.
"I go to the Ancient House," he made answer
to himself.
" What do you go to get ? "
" I f'o "ot go to get, I go to give."
" What do you go to give ? "
" I go to leave an empty basket at the door, and
the lantern that the Shopkeeper set in the hand of
the pedler."
" Who is the pedler, hunchback ? "
"The pedler is he that carries the pack on his
back."
" What carries he in the pack ? "
" He carries what the Shopkeeper gave him—
for he had no money and no choice."
" Who is the Shopkeeper, dwarf.? "
" The Shopkeeper— the Shopkeeper is the father
of dwarfs, and angels, and children,— and fools."
" What does he sell, poor man ? "
" He sells harness for men and cattle, and you
give your lives for the harness."
"What is this you carry, dwarf ? "
" I carry home the harness of a soul."
" Is it worth carrying home ? "
" The eyes grow sick at sight of the old harness
in the way."
And the watching figure heard and pitied. It
was Valmond. Excited by Parpon's last words
at the hotel, he had followed, and though suffer-
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Il6 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
i
7,
ing from the wound in his hearl, and shaken by
the awful accident of the cveninjj, he was keen to
chase this weird adventure to the end. For, as he
said to himself, some things were to be seen but
once in the great game, and it was worth while
seeing them, even if life were the shorter for it.
On, and ever upward, filed the strange proces-
sion, until at last they came to Dalgrothe Moun-
tain. On one of its foot-hills stood the Rock of
Red Pigeons. This was the dwarf's secret resort,
and no one ever disturbed him, for it was said the
Little Good Folk of the Scarlet Hills (of whom,
it was rumored, he had come) held revel there,
and people did not venture rashly. The land
about it, and a hut farther down the hill, belonged
to him, a legacy from the father of the young
Seigneur.
It was all hills, gorges, and rivers, and idle
murmuring pines. Of a morning, mist floated
into mist as far as eye could see, blue and gray and
amethyst, a glamour of tints and velvety radiance.
The great hills waved into each other like a vast
violet sea, and, in turn, the tiny earth-waves on
each separate hill swelled into the larger har-
mony. At the foot of a steep precipice was the
whirlpool from which Parpon had saved the father
of De la Riviere from an awful death, and had
received this lonely region as his reward. To
the dwarf it was his other world, his real world ;
for here he lived his own life, and it was here he
had brought his ungainly dead, to give it housing.
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC II7
The dogs drew up the grim cargo to a plateau
near the Rock of Red Pigeons, and gathering
sticks, Parpon lit a sweet-smelling fire of cedar.
Then he went to the hut, and came back with a
spade and shovel. At the foot of a great pine he
began to dig. As the work went on he broke into
a sort of dirge, painfully sweet. Leaning against
a rock not far away, Valmond watched the tiny
man with the great arms throw up the soft, good-
smelling earth, enriched by centuries of dead
leaves a; flowers. The trees waved, and bent,
and murmured as though they gossiped with each
other over this odd grave-digger. The light of
the fire showed across the gorge, touching off the
far wall of pines with burnished crimson, and huge
flickering shadows looked like elusive spirits,
attendant on the lonely obsequies. Now and then
a bird, aroused by the light or the snapping of a
burning stick, rose from its nest and flew away ;
and wild fowl flitted darkly down the pass, like
the souls of heroes faring to Walhalla. When an
owl hooted, a wolf howled far off, or a loon cried
from the water below, the solemn fantasy took on
the aspect of the unreal.
Valmond watched like one in a dream, and
once or twice he turned faint and drew his cloak
about him, as if he were cold, for a sickly air,
passing by, seemed to fill his lungs with poison.
At last the grave was dug, and sprinkling its
depth with leaves and soft branches of spruce,
the dwarf drew the body over, and lowered it
T
Il8 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
slowly and awkwardly. Then he covered all but
the huge, unsightly face, and kneeling, peered
down at it pitifully.
"Gabriel, Gabriel," he cried, "surely thy soul
is better without its harness. I killed thee, and
thou didst kill, and those we love die by our own
hands. But, no, I lie ; I did not love thee, thou
wert so ugly, and wild, and cruel. Poor boy !
Thou wast a fool, and — hush ! thou wast a mur-
derer. Thou wouldst have slain my prince, and
so I slew thee — I slew thee ! "
He rocked to and fro in abject sorrow: "Hast
thou no one in all the world to mourn thee save
him who killed thee ? Is there no one to wish thee
speed to the Ancient House ? Art thou tossed
away like an old shoe, and no one to say, The
Shoemaker that made thee must see to it if thou
wast illshapen, and walked crookedly, and did evil
things ? Ah ! is there no one to mourn thee, save
him that killed thee ? "
He leaned back, crying out into the great hills
like a remorseful, tortured soul.
Valmond, no longer able to watch his grief in
silence, stepped quickly forward. The dogs, see-
ing him, growled warningly, and the dwarf looked
up as he heard the footsteps.
"There is another to mourn him, Parpon,"
said Valmond.
A look of bewilderment and joy came into
Parpon's eyes. Then he gave a laugh of singular
wildness, his face twitched, tears rushed down his
f^
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC II9
Cheeks, and he threw himself at Valmond's feet
and clasped his knees, crying :
" Ah ah. my prince, great brother, thou hast
come also ! Ah. thou didst know the way up the
long hill ! Thou hast come to the burial of a fool
But he had a mother-ay. ay. a mother ! All fools
have mothers, and they should be buried well
Ah. come. come, and speak softly the Act of Con-
trition, and I will cover him up."
He went to throw in the earth, but Valmond
pushed him aside gently,
"No no," he said, "this is for me." And he
began filling the grave.
When they left the place of burial the fire was
burning low. for they had talked long. At the
foot of the hills they looked back. Day was begin-
ning to break over Dalgrothe Mountain.
m
T
CHAPTER X
w>
HEN, next day, in the bright sunlight, the
Little Chemist, the Cur6, and others, opened the
door of the shed, taking off their hats in the pres-
ence of the Master Workman, they saw that his
seat was empty. The dead Caliban was gone —
who should say how or where ? The lock was
still on the doors, the walls were intact, there was
no window for entrance or escape. He had van-
ished as weirdly as he came.
All day the people sought the place, viewing
with awe and superstition the place where the
body had lain, and the spot in the smithy where,
it was said, Valmond had killed the giant.
The next day was the feast of St. John the Bap-
tist. Mass was said in the church, all the parish
attending ; and Valmond was present, with La-
groin in full regimentals.
Plates of blessed bread were passed round at
the close of the mass, as was the custom on this
feast-day ; and with a curious feeling that came to
him often afterward, Valmond listened to his gen-
eral saying solemnly :
" Holy bread, I take thee ;
If I die suddenly,
Serve me as a sacrament."
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC ,2.
ate h« bread, and repeated the mystical words
A 1 day long there were sports and processions
f;/' f"/' gay in rosettes and ribbons, flower'
and maple- eaves, as they idled or filed a ong the
ees, under arches of evergreens, where^he
ere°d tor.l ""'°"/^.';' ^--bly mingled and flut-
tered together. Anvils, with powder placed be-
Uveen. ^^re touched off with a bar of red-hot iron
makmg a vast noise, and drawing crowds in fron^
wasamtle od cannon brought from the battle-
field of Ttconderoga, and its boisterous salutations
were rephed to from the Seigneury, by a still mere
ancent p.ece of ordnance. Sixty of Valmond's
recruits, under Lajeunesse the blacksmith, mTrched
up and down the streets firing salutes with happj
mtrep,d,ty and setting themselves off before iZ
crowds w„h a good many airs, and nods, and
simple vanities. •
In the early evening, the good Cur<! blessed and
ighted the great bonfire before the church and
.mmediately, at this signal, an answering fire
sprang up on a hill at the other side of the vmage
phed, till all of Pontiac was in a glow. This was
a custom set in memoryof theold days when fires
flashed intelligence, after a set code, across the
great rivers and lakes, and from hill to hill
.ZZ "^ "^^'"^ °^'S'-°">e Mountain appeared a
sumptuous star, mystical and red. Valmond saw
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122 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
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it from his window, and knew it to be Parpon's
watch-fire, by the grave of his brother Gabriel.
The chief procession started with the lighting of
the bonfires. Singing softly, choristers and aco-
lytes in robes, preceded the Cur6, and devout be-
lievers and youths on horseback with ribbons fly-
ing, carried banners and shrines. Marshals kept
the lines steady, and four were in constant attend-
ance on a gorgeous carriage, all gilt and carving
(the heirloom of the parish), in which reclined the
figure of a handsome lad, impersonating John the
Baptist, with long golden hair, dressed in rich
robes and skins — a sceptre in his hand, a snowy
lamb at his feet. The rude symbolism was soft-
ened and toned to an almost poetical refinement,
and gave to the harmless revels a touch of Arcady.
After this semi-religious procession, nightfall
brought the march of Garotte's Kalathumpians.
They were carried on three long drays, each
drawn by four horses, half of them white, half
black. They were an outlandish crew of come-
dians, dressed after no pattern, save the absurd —
clowns, satyrs, kings, soldiers, imps, barbarians.
Many had hideous false faces, and a few horribly
tall skeletons had heads of pumpkins with lighted
candles inside. The marshals were pierrots and
clowns on long stilts, who towered in a ghostly
way above the crowd. They were cheerful, fan-
tastic revellers, singing the maddest and silliest of
songs, with singular refrains and repetitions.
They stopped at last in front of the Louis Quinze.
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC I23
The windows of Valmond's chambers were alight,
and to one a staff was fastened. Suddenly the
Kalathumpians quieted where they stood, for the
voice of their leader, a sort of fat king of Yvetot,
cried out :
"See there, my noisy children!" It was the
inventive limeburner who spoke. "What come
you here for, my rollicking blades ? "
"We are a long way from home ; we are look-
ing for our brother, your Majesty." they cried in
chorus.
" Ha, ha ! What is your brother like, jollv
dogs ? " ^
" He has a face of ivory, and eyes like torches,
and he carries a silver sword."
" But what the devil is his face like ivory for,
my fanfarons ? ''
" So that he shall not blush for us. He is a
grand seigneur," they shouted back.
"Why are his eyes like torches, my raga-
muffins ?" ^
" To show us the way home."
Valmond appeared upon the balcony.
" What is it you wish, my comrades ? " he
asked.
"Brother," said the fantastic leader, "we've
lost our way. Will you lead us home again ? "
"It is a long travel," he answered, after the
fashions of their own symbols. " There are high
hills to climb ; there may be wild beasts in the
way, and storms come down the mountains."
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124 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
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"We have strong hearts, and you have a silver
sword, brother."
" I cannot see your faces, to know if you are
true, my children," he answered.
Instantly the clothes flew off, masks fell, pump-
kins came crashing to the ground, the stilts of the
marshals dropped, and thirty men stood upon
the drays in crude military order, with muskets
in their hands, and cockades in their caps. At
that moment also, a flag — the tricolor — flut-
tered upon the staff" out of Valmond's window.
The roll of a drum came out of the street some-
where, and presently the people fell back before
sixty armed men marching in columns, under
Lagroin, while from the opposite direction came
Lajeunesse with sixty others, silent all, till they
reached the drays, and formed round them slowly.
Valmond stood motionless watching, and the
people were very still, for this seemed like real life,
and no comedy. Some of the soldiery had mili-
tary clothes, old militia uniforms, or the rebel
trappings of 'S7 J others, less fortunate, wore their
trousers in long boots, their coats buttoned lightly
over their chests, and belted in ; and the Napo-
leonic cockade was in every cap.
" My children," said Valmond at last, " I see
that your hearts are strong, and that you have the
bodies of true men. We have sworn fealty to
each other, and the badge of our love is in your
caps. Let us begin our journey home. I will
come down among you. I will come down among
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WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 1 25
you, and I will lead you from Pontiac to the sea,
gathering comrades as we go, then across the sea
to France, then to Paris and the Tuileries, where
the Bourbons usurp the place of a Napoleon."
He descended and mounted his waiting horse.
At that moment Monsieur de la Riviere appeared
on the balcony, and, stepping forward, said :
" My friends, do you know what you are doing ?
This is folly. This man "
He got no further, for Valmond raised his hand
to Lagroin, and the drums began to beat. Then
he rode down in front of Lajeunesse's men, the
others sprang from the drays and fell into place,
and soon the little army was marching, four deep,
through the village.
This was the official beginning of Valmond's
quest for empire. The people had a phrase, and
they had a man ; and they saw no further than the
hour.
As they filed past the house of ^lise Malboir,
the girl stood in the glow of a bonfire, beside the
oven where Valmond had first seen her. All
around her was the wide awe of night, enriched
by the sweet perfume of a coming harvest. He
doffed his hat to her, then to the tricolor, which
Lagroin had fastened on a tall staff before the
house. t.UsQ did not stir, did not courtesy or
bow, but stood silent — entranced. For she was
in a dream. This man riding at the head of the
simple villagers was part of her vision, and, at
the moment, she did not rouse from the ecstasy
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of reverie where her new-born love had led
her.
For Valmond the picture had a moving power.
He heard again her voice crying in the smithy :
*• He is dying ! Oh, my love ! my love ! "
He was now in the heart of a fantastic adventure.
Filled with its spirit, he would carry it bravely to
the end, enjoying every step in it, comedy or trag-
edy. Yet all day, since he had eaten the holy
bread, there had been ringing in his ears the
words :
" Holy bread, I take thee ;
If I die suddenly,
Serve me as a sacrament."
It came home to him, at the instant, what a mad
chance it all was. What was he doing ? No
matter — it was all a game, in which nothing was
sure — nothing save this girl. She would, he
knew, with the abandon of an absorbing passion,
throw all things away for him.
Such as Madame Chalice — Ah, she was a part
of this brave fantasy, this dream of empire, this
splendid play ! But ]£lise Malboir was actuality
itself, true, absolute, abiding. His nature swam
gloriously in this daring comedy ; he believed in it,
he sank himself in it with a joyous recklessness; it
was his victory or his doom. But it was a shake
of the dice — had Fate loaded them against him ?
He looked up the hill toward the Manor. Life
was there in its essence ; beauty, talent, the genius
of the dreamer, like his own. But it was not for
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 127
him ; dauphin or fool, it was not for him. Ma-
dame Chalice endured him for some talent he had
shown, for the apparent sincerity of his love for the
cause, but that was all. She was his inquisitor, but
not his enemy. Yet she was ever in this dream
of his, and he felt that she would always be ; the
unattainable, the undeserved, more splendid than
the cause itself, that for which he would give —
what would he give ? Time would show.
But l^lise Malboir, abundant, true, fine, in the
healthy vigor of her nature, with no dream in her
heart but love fulfilled — she was no part of his
adventure, but of that vital spirit which can bring
to the humblest as to the highest the good reality
of life.
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CHAPTER XI
I
T was the poignancy of these feelings which,
later, drew Valmond to the ashes of the fire in
whose glow ^lise had stood. The village was
quieting down, the excited habitants had scattered
to their homes. But in one or two houses there
was dancing, and, as he passed, Valmond had
heard the chansons of the humble games they
played — primitive games, primitive chansons:
" In my right hand I hold a rose-bush,
"Which will bloom, Manon Ion la !
Which will bloom in the month of May.
Come into our dance, pretty rose-bush,
Come and kiss, Manon Ion la !
Come and kiss whom you love best ! "
The ardor, the delight, the careless joy of youth
were in the song and in the dance. These sim-
ple folk would marry, beget children, labor hard,
obey Mother Church, and yield up the ghost peace-
fully in the end, after their kind ; but now and
then there was born among them one not after
their kind : even such as Madelinette Lajeunesse,
with the stirring of talent in her veins, and the
visions of the artistic temperament, — delight and
curse all at once, — that lifted her out of the life,
lonely, and yet sorrowfully happy.
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i
Valmond looked around. How still and peace-
ful it was, the home of itlise standing apart in the
quiet fields! The moon was lying off above the
edge of mountains, looking out on the world com-
placently, as an indulgent janitor scans the sleepy
street from his doorway. But involuntarily his eyes
were drawn to the hill beyond, where showed a
light in a window of the Manor. To-morrow he
would go there : he had much to say to Madame
Chalice.
He was abruptly drawn from his meditations by
the entrance of Lagroin into the little garden. He
followed the old man through the open doorway.
All was dark, but as they stepped within they
heard some one move ; presently a match was
struck, and Elise stepped forward with a candle
raised level with her dusky head. Lagroin looked
at her in indignant astonishment.
" Do you not see who is here, girl ? " he de-
manded.
" Your Excellency," she said confusedly to Val-
mond, and, bowing, offered him a chair.
"You must pardon her, sire," said the old ser-
geant. " She has never been taught, and she's a
wayward wench."
Valmond waved his hand. " Nonsense, we are
friends. You are my general, she is your niece."
His eyes followed her as she set out some cider
for them, a small flask of cognac, and some seed-
cakes ; luxuries which were served but once a
year in this house, as in most homes of Pontiac.
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For a long time Valmontl and Lagroin talked,
devised, planned, schemed, till the old man grew
husky and pale, and the sight of his senile weari-
ness flashed the irony of the whole wild dream into
Valmond's mind. He rose, and giving his arm,
he led Lagroin to his bedroom, and bade him good-
night. When he returned to the room it was
empty.
He looked around, and, seeing an open door,
stepped to it quickly. It led into a little stairway.
He remembered then that there was a room
which had been, apparently, tacked on, like an
afterthought, to the end of the house. Seeing the
glimmer of a light beyond, he went up a few steps,
and came face to face with l^lise, who, candle
in hand, was about to descend the stairs again.
For a moment she stood quite still, then placed
the candle on the rude little dressing-table, built
of dry-goods boxes, and draped in fresh muslin.
Valmond took in every detail of the chamber in a
single glance. It was very simple and neat, with
its small wooden bedstead corded with rope, the
poor hickory rocking-chair, the flaunting chromo
of the Holy Family, the sprg of blessed palm, the
shrine of the Virgin, the print skirts hanging on
the wall, the stockings lyin^ i jrossa chair, the bits
of ribbon on the bed. The quietness, the allur-
ing simplicity, the whole room filled with the rich
presence of the girl, sent a flood of color to Val-
mond's face, and his heart beat hard. Curiosity
only, had led him into the room, something more
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC IJI
vital held him there. l^:iise seemed to read his
thoughts, and, takinjj up her candle, she moved
toward the doorway. Neither had spoken. As
she was about to pass him, he sufldeniy touched
her arm. Glancing toward the window, he noticed
that the blind was not down. He turned, and
blew out the candle in her hand.
" Ah, your Excellency ! " she cried in tremulous
affright.
"We could have been seen from outside,"
he explained. She turned and saw the moonlight
streaming in at the window, and lying like a
silver coverlet upon the floor. As if with a
blind, involuntary instinct for protection, she
stepped forward, and stood within it, motion-
less. The sight thrilled him, and he moved
towards her. The mind of the girl reasserted
itself, and she hastened to the door. Again, as
she was about to pass him, he put his hand upon
her shoulder.
" l^lise, ]^:iise ! " he said. The voice was per-
suasive, eloquent, going to every far retreat ot
emotion in her.
There was a sudden riot in his veins, and he
took her passionately in his arms, and kissed her
on the lips, on the eyes, on the hair, on the neck.
At that moment the outer door opened below, and
the murmur of voices came to thein.
" Oh monsieur, oh monsieur, let me go," she
whispered fearfully. "It is my mother and
Duclosse the mealman."
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132 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
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Valmond recognized the fat, wheezy tones of
Duclosse — Sergeant Duclosse. He released her,
and she caught up the candle.
" What can you do ? " she whispered.
" I will wait here. I must not go down," he
replied. " It would mean ruin."
Ruin ! ruin ! Was she face to face with ruin
already, she who, two minutes ago, was as safe
and happy as a young bird in its nest ? He saw
instantly he had made a mistake, had been cruel,
though he had not intended it.
" Ruin to me," he said at once. " Duclosse is a
stupid fellow ; lie would not understand, he would
desert me, and that would be disastrous at this
moment. Go down," he said, *' I will wait here,
Iilise."
Her brows knitted. " Oh monsieur, oh mon-
sieur, I'd rather face death, I believe, than that
you should remain here."
But he pushed her gently toward the door, and
soon afterwards he heard her talking to Duclosse
and her mother.
He sat down on the couch, and listened for a mo-
ment. His veins were still glowing from the wild
moment just passed. Elise would come back —
and then — what ? She would be alone with him
again in this room, loving him — fearing him. He
remembered once how as a child he had seen a
peasant strike his wife, felling her to the ground,
and how afterwards she had clasped him round
the neck and kissed him, as he bent over, in merely
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC I33
vulgar fright lest he had killed her. That scene
flashed before him.
Then came an opposing thought. As Madame
Chalice had said, either as dauphin or fool, he was
playing a terrible game. Why shouldn't he get
all he could out of it while it lasted— let the world
break over him when it must ? Why should he
stand in an orchard of ripe fruit, and refuse to pick
what lay luscious to his hand, what this stupid
mealman below would pick, and eat, and yawn
over.? There was the point. Wouldn't the girl
rather have him, Valmond, at any price, than the
priest-blessed love of Duclosse and his kind ?
The thought possessed, devoured him, for a
moment. Suddenly there rang in his ears the
words which had haunted him all day :
" Holy bread, I take thee ;
If I die suddenly,
Serve me as a sacrament."
They passed back and forth in his .^ind for a
little time, before they had any significance. Then
they gave birth to another thought. Suppose he
stayed, suppose he took advantage of the love of
this girl ? He looked around the little room,
showing so peacefully in the moonlight — the relig-
ious symbols, the purity, the cleanliness, the calm
poverty. He had known the inside of the boudoirs
and the bedchambers of women of fashion — he had
seen them, at least. In them the voluptuous, the
indulgent, seemed part of the picture. Good God !
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134 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
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He was not a beast that he could fail to see what
this tiny bedroom would be, if he followed his wild
will.
Some terrible fate might overtake his gay pil-
grimage to empire, and leave him lost, abandoned,
in a desert of ruin. Why not give up the adven-
ture, and come to this quiet and this good peace,
so shutting out the stir and violence of the world ?
All at once another face came into his thoughts,
swam in his sight, and he knew that what he felt
for this peasant girl was of one side of his nature
only. All of him worth the having — was any
worth the having ? — responded to that diffusing
charm which brought so many men to the feet of
the woman at the Manor, who had lovers by the
score ; lovers who worshipped unrequited : from
such as the Cur6 and the avocat, gentle and noble,
to the young Seigneur, selfish and ulterior.
He got to his feet quietly. No, he would make
a decent exit, in triumph or defeat, to honor this
woman who was standing his friend. Let them,
the British Government, proceed against him ; he
would have only one trouble to meet, one to leave
behind.
He would not load this poor girl with shame as
well as sorrow. Her love itself was affliction
enough to her. This adventure was serious ; a
bullet might drop him ; the law might remove
him : and so he would leave the girl alone.
He was about to descend by the window, when
he heard a door shut below, and the thud of heavy
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WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 1 35
Steps outside the house. Drawing back, he waited
until the footstep of Elise sounded upon the stair.
She came in without a light, and at first did not
see him. He heard her gasp. Stepping forward
a little, he said :
" I am here, l^lise. Come."
" Oh monsieur — your Excellency," she whis-
pered affrightedly. " Oh, you cannot go down,
for my mother sits ill by the fire. You cannot go
out that way."
He took both her hands. " No matter. Poor
child, you are trembling ! Come."
He drew her toward the couch. She shrank
back. " Oh, no, monsieur, oh — I aie of shame !
Oh monsieur ! "
" Do not be afraid, ]^lise," he answered gently,
and drew her to his side. •* Let us say good-
night."
She grew very still, and he felt her move towards
him, as she divined his purpose, and knew that
this room of hers would have no shadow in it to-
morrow, and her soul no unpardonable sin. A
warm peace passed through her veins, and she
drew nearer still. She did not know that this new
ardent confidence came near to wrecking her.
For Valmond had an instant's madness, and only
saved himself from the tumult in his blood, by get-
ting to his feet, with strenuous resolution. Taking
both her hands, he kissed her on the cheeks, and
said :
'• Adieu, Elise, may your sorrow never be
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136 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
more, and my happiness never be less. I am
going."
He felt her hand grasp his arm, as if with a
desire that he should not leave her. Then she
rose quickly, and came with him to the window.
Raising the sash, she held it, and he looked out.
There seemed to be no one in the road, no one in
the yard. So, half turning, he swung himself
down by his hands, and dropped to the ground.
From the window above a sob came to him, and
]£lise's face showed for an instant in the moon-
light, all tears.
He did not seek the road directly, but climbing
a fence near by, crossed a hayfield, going unseen,
as he thought, to the village.
But a woman, walking in the road with an old
gentleman, had seen and recognized him. Her
fingers clinched with anger at the sight, and her
spirit filled with disgust.
" What are you looking at ? " said her compan-
ion, who was short-sighted.
" At the tricks moonlight plays with the eyes.
Shadows frighten me sometimes, my dear avocat."
She shuddered.
" My dear madame ! " he said in warm sym-
pathy.
CHAPTER XII
1 ilE sun was going down behind tlie hills, like
a drowsy boy to his bed, radiant and weary from
his day's sport. The villagers were up at Dal-
grothe Mountain soldiering for Valmond. Every
evening, when the haymakers put up their scythes,
the mill-wheel stopped turning, and the Angelus
ceased, the men marched away into the hills, where
the ardent " Napoleon " had pitched his camp.
Tenis, muskets, ammunition came out of dark
places, as they are ever sure to come when the war-
trumpet sounds. All seems peace, but suddenly,
at the wild call, the latent barbarian in human
nature springs up and is ready ; and the cruder
the arms the fiercer the temper that wields.
Recruits now arrived from other parishes, and
besides those who came every night to drill, there
were others who stayed always in camp. The
limeburner left his kiln, and sojourned with his
dogs at Dalgrothe Mountain, the mealman neg-
lected his trade, and Lajeunesse was not to be
found at his blacksmith shop, save after dark,
when the red glow of his forge could be seen till
midnight. He was captain of a company in the
daytime, forgeron at night.
Valmond, no longer fantastic in dress, speech,
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138 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
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or manner, was happy, busy, buoyed up and cast
down by turn, troubled, exhilarated. He could
not understand these variations of health and
mood. He had not felt equably well since the
night of Gabriel's burial in the miasmic airs of
the mountain. At times he felt a wonderful light-
ness of head and heart, with splendid hopes ;
again a heaviness and an aching, accompanied by
a feeling of doom. He fought the depression, and
appeared always before his men cheerful and alert.
He was ^Uher looking back nor looking forward,
bui living in his dramatic theme from day to day,
givif} wondering if, after all, this movement, by some
joylul, t. trav.^^u.nt chance, might not carry him
on even to the chambers of the Tuileries.
From the first day that he had gathered these
peasants about him, had convinced, almost against
their will, the wise men of the village, this fanciful
adventure had been growing a deep reality to him.
He had convinced himself ; he felt that he could,
in a larger sphere, gather thousands about him
where he now gathered scores — with a good cause.
Well, was his cause not good ?
There were others to whom this growing reality
was painful. The young Seigneur was serious
enough about it, and more than once, irritated and
perturbed, he sought Madame Chalice ; but she
gave him no encouragement, remarking coldly
that Monsieur Valmond probably knew very well
what he was doing, and was weighing all conse-
quences.
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WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 1 39
She had become interested in a passing drama,
and De la Riviere's attentions produced no im-
pression on her, and gave her no pleasure. They
were, however, not obtrusive. She had seen
much of him two years before ; he had been a
good friend of her husband. She was amused at
his attentions then : she had little to occupy her,
and she felt herself superior to any man's emo-
tions ; not such as this young Seigneur could win
her away from her passive but certain fealty. She
had played with fire, from the very spirit of adven-
ture in her, but she had not been burnt.
" You say he is an impostor, dear monsieur,"
she said languidly. " Do pray exert yourself, and
prove him one. What is your evidence ? "
She leaned back in the very chair where she
had sat looking at Valmond two weeks before,
her fingers idly smoothing out the folds of her
dress.
"Oh, the thing is impossible," he answered,
blowing the smoke of a cigarette ; " we've had no
real proof of his birth, and life — ^and so on."
" But there are relics ! " she said suggestively,
and she picked up the miniature of the Emperor.
" Owning a skeleton doesn't make it your an-
cestor," he answered.
He laughed, for he was pleased at his own
cleverness, and he also wished to remain good-
tempered.
" I am so glad to see you at last take the true
attitude towards this," she responded brightly.
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140 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
" If it's a comedy, enjoy it. If it's a tragedy — "
she drew herself up with a little shudder, for she
was thinking of that figure dropping from ^^lise's
window — "you cannot stop it. Tragedy is inevi-
table ; it's only comedy that is within the gift and
governance of mortals."
For a moment she was lost in the thought of
ifelise, of Valmond's vulgarity and commonness ;
and he had dared to speak words of admiration
to her ! She flushed to the hair, as she had done
fifty times since she had seen him that moonlit
night. Ah, she had thought him the dreamer,
the enthusiast — maybe, in kind, credulous mo-
ments, the great man he claimed to be ; and he
had only been the sensualist after all ! That he
did not love Elise, she knew well enough ; he had
been cold-blooded ; in this, at least, he was Napo-
leonic.
She had not spoken with him since that night,
but she had had two long letters superscribed, "In
Camp, Headquarters, Dalgrothe Mountain," and
these had breathed only patriotism, the love of a
cause, the warmth of a strong, virile temperament,
almost a poetical abandon of unnamed ambitions
and achievements. She had read the letters
again and again, for she had found it hard to rec-
oncile them with her later knowledge of this man.
He wrote to her as to a confederate, frankly,
warmly. She felt the genuine thing in him some-
where ; and, in spite of all, she had a sort of sym-
pathy for him. Yet that scene — that scene ! She
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WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC I4I
crimsoned with anger again, and, in spite of her
smiling lips, the young Seigneur saw and won-
dered.
"The thing must end soon," he said, as he rose
to go, for a messenger had come for him. " He
is injuring the peace, the trade, and the life of the
parishes ; he is gathering men and arms, drilling,
exploiting military designs in one country, to
proceed against another. England is at peace
with France ! "
" An international matter, this ? " she asked
sarcastically.
" Yes. The Government at Quebec is English ;
we are French, and he is French ; and I repeat,
this thing is serious."
She smiled. " I am an American. I have no
responsibility."
" They might arrest you for aiding and abetting
if "
" If what, dear and cheerful friend ? "
" If I did not make it right for you." He smiled
indulgently.
She touched his arm, and said with ironical
sweetness : " How you relieve my mind ! " Then,
with delicate insinuation : " I have a lot of old
muskets here, at least a hundred pounds of pow-
der, and plenty of provisions, and I will send them
to- -Napoleon."
He instantly became grave. " I warn you "
She interrupted him. " Nonsense ! You warn
me ! " She laughed mockingly. " I warn you,
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142 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
dear Seigneur, that you will be more sorry than
satisfied if you meddle in this matter."
"You are going to send those things to him ? "
he asked anxiously.
" Certainly — and food every day."
And she kept her word.
De la Riviere, as he went down the hill, thought
with irritation of how ill things were going with
him and Madame Chalice — so different from two
years ago, when their friendship had first begun.
He had remembered her with a singular persist-
ency, he had looked forward to her coming back,
and when she came, his heart had fluttered like a
school-boy's. But things had changed. Clearly,
she was interested in this impostor. Was it the
man himself or the adventure ? He did not know.
But the adventure was the man — and, who could
tell ? Once he thought he had detected some
warmth for himself in her eye, in the clasp of her
hand ; now ! A spirit of black, ungentle-
manly malignity seized upon him.
It possessed him most strongly at the moment
he was passing the home of l^lise Malboir. The
girl was standing by the gate, looking towards
the village. Her brow was a little heavy, so that
it gave her eyes at all times a deep look, but now
De la Riviere saw that they were brooding as
well. There was a pathetic sadness in the poise
of the head. He did not take off his hat to her.
" Oh, grand to the war he goes,
O gat, vive le roi ! "
1
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 143
he said teasingly. He thought she might have a
lover among the recruits at Dalgrothe Mountain.
She turned to him, startled, for she thought he
meant Valmond. She did not speak, but became
very still and pale.
" Better tie him up with a garter, 6lise, and get
the old uncle back to Ville Bambord. Trouble's
coming. The game '11 soon be up."
"What trouble ? " she faltered.
" Battle, murder, and sudden death," he an-
swered and passed on with a sour laugh.
She slowly repeated his words, looked towards
the Manor House with a strange expression, then
went up to her little bedroom, and sat on the edge
of the bed for a long time, where she had sat with
Valmond. Every word, every incident, of that
night came back to her, and her heart filled up
with worship. It flowed over into her eyes, and
fell upon her clasped hands. If trouble did come
to him ? — He had given her a new world, he should
have her life and all else besides.
A half hour later De la Riviere came rapping at
the Curb's door. The sun was almost gone, the
smell of the hayfields floated over the village, and
all was quiet in the streets. Women gossiped in
their doorways, but there was no stir anywhere.
With the young Seigneur was the member of the
legislature for the county. His mood was different
from that of his previous visit to Pontiac, for he
had been told that whether the cavalier adven-
turer was or was not a Napoleon, this campaign
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144 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO I'ONTIAC
was illegal. He had made no move. Being a
member of the legislature, he naturally shirked
responsibility, and he had come to see the young
Seigneur, who was justice of the peace, and prac-
tically mayor of the county. They found the
Curd, the avocat, and Medallion, talking together.
The three were greatly distressed by the repre-
sentations of the member, and Monsieur De la
Rivifere. The Curd turned to the avocat, inquir-
ingly.
•' The law, the law of the case is clear," he said
helplessly. " If the peace is disturbed, if there
is conspiracy to injure a country not at war with
our own, if arms are borne with menace, if his
Excellency "
" His Excellency ! my faith ! — you're an ass,
Garon ! " cried the young Seigneur, with an angry
sneer.
For once in his life the avocat bridled up. He
got to his feet and stood silent an instant, raising
himself up and down on his tip-toes, his lips com-
pressed, his small body suddenly contracting to a
firmness, and grown to a height, his eyelids work-
ing quickly. To the end of his life the Curd re-
membered and talked of the mome-nt when the
avocat gave battle. To him it was superb — he
never could have done it himself.
" I repeat, /tis Excellency, Monsieur De la Rivi-
ere. My information is greater than yours, both
by accident and through knowledge. I accept
him as a Napoleon, and, as a Frenchman, I have
h <,
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 145
no cause to blush for my homage, nor my faith,
nor for his Excellency. He is a man of loving
disposition, of great knowledge, of power to win
men, of deep ideas, of large courage. Monsieur,
I cannot forget the tragedy he stayed at the smithy,
with risk of his own life. I cannot forget "
The Cur^, anticipating, nodded at him encourag-
ingly. Probably the avocat intended to say some-
thing quite different, but the look in the Curb's
eyes prompted him, and he continued :
" I cannot forget that he has given to the poor,
and liberally to the Church, and has made and
promised benefits to the deserving — ah, no, no, my
dear Seigneur ! "
He had delivered his speech in a quaint, quick
way, as though addressing a jury, and when he
had finished, he sat down again, and nodded his
head, and tapped his feet on the floor, and the Cur6
did the same, looking inquiringly at De la Riviere.
This was the first time there had been trouble
in the little coterie. They had never differed pain-
fully before. Tall Medallion longed to say some-
thing, but he waited for the Cur6 to speak.
"What have you to say. Monsieur le Curd?"
asked De la Riviere, testily.
" My dear friend Monsieur Garon has answered
for us both," replied the Curd, quietly.
" Do you mean to say that you will not act with
me to stop this thing," he urged, " not even for
the safety of the people ? "
The reply was calm and resolute.
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146 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
" My people shall have my prayers and my life,
■when needed, but I do not feel called upon to act
for the state. I have the honor to be a friend of —
his Excellency."
" By Heaven, the state shall act ! " cried De la
Riviere, fierce with rancour. " I shall go to this
Valmond to-night, with my friend the member
here. I shall warn him, and call upon the people
to disperse. If he doesn't listen, let him beware !
I seem to stand alone in the care of Pontiac ! "
The avocat turned to his desk. " No, no ; I will
write you a legal opinion," he said with profes-
sional honesty. " You shall have my legal help ;
but for the rest, I am one with my dear Cur6."
" Well, Medallion, you, too ? " asked De la
Riviere.
" I'll go with you to the camp," answered the
auctioneer. " Fair play is all I care for. Pontiac
will come out of this all right. Come along."
But the avocat kept them till he had written his
legal opinion, and handed it courteously to the
young Seigneur. They all were very silent. There
had been a discourtesy, and it lay like a cloud on
the coterie. De la Riviere opened the door to go
out, after bowing to the Cur^ and the avocat, who
stood up with mannered politeness, but presently
turned, came back, was about to speak, when,
catching sight of a miniature of Valmond on the
avocat's desk, before which was set a bunch of vio-
lets, he wheeled and left the room without a word.
The moon had not yet risen, but stars were
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC I47
shining, when the young Seigneur and the member
came to Dalgrothe Mountain. On one side of
the Rocic of Red Pigeons was a precipice and wild
water ; on the other was a deep valley like a cup,
and in the centre of this was a sort of plateau or
gentle slope. Dalgrothe Mountain towered above.
Upon this plateau Valmond had pitched his tents.
There was water, there was good air, and for pur-
poses of drill — or defence — it was excellent. The
approaches were patrolled, so that no outside strag-
glers could reach either the Rock of Red Pigeons
or the valley, or see what was going on below,
without permission. Lagroin was everywhere,
drilling, commanding, brow-beating his recruits
one minute, and praising them the next, and
Lajeunesse, Garotte, Muroc, and Duclosse were
invaluable, each after his kind.
The young Seigneur and his companions passed
unchallenged, on up to the Rock of Red Pigeons.
Looking down, they had a perfect view of the
encampment. The tents had come from lumber-
camps, from river-driving gangs, and from private
stores ; there was no regular uniform, but flags
were flying everywhere, many fires were burning,
the voice of Lagroin in command came up the
valley loudly, and Valmond sat on his horse
watching the drill and a march past. The fires
lit up the sides cf ihe valley and glorified the
mountains beyond. In this inspiring air it was
impossible to feel an accent of disaster or the
stealthy footfall of ruin.
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148 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
The three came down into the valley, then up
onto the plateau, where they were challenged,
allowed to pass, and came to where Valmond sat
upon his horse. At sight of them, with a suspi-
cion of the truth, he ordered Lagroin to march the
men down the long plateau. They made a good
figure filing past the three visitors, as the young
Seigneur admitted.
Valmond dismounted, and waited for them.
He looked weary, and there were dark circles
round his eyes, as though he had an illness ; but he
stood erect and dignified. His uniform was that
of a general of the Empire. It was rather dingy,
yet it was of rich material, and he wore the rib-
bon of the Legion of Honor on his breast. His
paleness did not arise from fear, for when his eyes
met Monsieur De la Riviere's there was in them
waiting inquiry, — nothing more. He greeted
them all politely, and Medallion warmly, shaking
his hand twice, for he knew well that the gaunt
auctioneer had only kindness in his heart, and
they had exchanged humorous stories more than
once — a friendly bond.
He motioned to his tent near by, but the young
Seigneur declined.
•• It is business, and imperative," he said. Val-
mond bowed. " Isn't it time this comedy was
finished } " continued De la Rividre, waving his
hand towards the encampment.
"My presence here is my reply, "answered Val-
mond. " But how does it concern monsieur ? "
T
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC I49
Val-
was
r his
" All that concerns Pontiac concerns me."
" And me ; I am as good a citizen as you."
" You are troubling our people. This is illegal
— this bearing arms, these purposes of yours. It
is mere filibustering, and you are an "
Valmond waved his hand, as if to stop the word.
" I am Valmond Napoleon, monsieur."
" If you do not promise to drop this, I will arrest
you," said De la Riviere, sharply.
" You ? " Valmond smiled ironically.
" I am a justice of the peace. I have the power."
" I have the power to prevent arrest, and I
will prevent it, monsieur. You alone of all this
parish, I believe of all this province, turn a sour
face, a sour heart to me. I regret it, but I do not
fear it."
" I will have you in custody, or there is no law
in Quebec."
Valmond's face had become a feverish red, and
he made an impatient gesture. Both men were
filled with bitterness, for both knew well that the
touchstone of this malice was Madame Chalice.
Hatred looked out of their eyes. It was, each
knew, a fight to the dark end.
" There is not law enough to justify you, mon-
sieur," answered Valmond, quickly.
"Be persuaded, monsieur," said the member to
Valmond, with a smirking gesture.
" All this country could not persuade me ; only
France can do that, and first I shall persuade
France," he answered.
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V
" Mummer ! " broke out De la RiviSre. *' By
Heaven, I will arrest you now ! "
He stepped forward, putting his hand in his
breast, as if to draw a weapon, though, in truth,
it was a summons.
Like lightning the dwarf shot in between, and
a sword flashed up at De la Riviere's breast.
" I saved your father's life, but I will take yours,
if you step farther, dear Seigneur," he said
coolly.
Valmond had not stirred, but his face had be-
come pale again.
" That will do, Parpon," he said quietly. "Mon-
sieur had best go," he added to De la Rivi6re,
" or even his beloved law may not save him ! "
*• I will put an end to this," cried the other, burst-
ing with anger. " Come, gentlemen," he said
to his companions, and turned away.
Medallion lingered behind the others.
" Your Excellency, if ever you need me, let me
know. I'd do much to prove myself no enemy,"
he said.
Valmond gave him his hand gratefully, bowed,
and beckoning a soldier to take his horse, walked
towards his tent. He swayed slightly as he went,
then a trembling seized him. He staggered as
he entered the door of the tent, and Parpon, see-
ing him, ran forward, and caught him in his arms.
The little man laid him down, felt his pulse, his
heart, saw the dark stain on his lips, and cried out
in a great fear :
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 151
" My God ! The black fever ! Ah, my Napo-
leon ! " ■> f
For hours Valmond lay in a burning stupor
and word went abroad that he might die ; but
Parpon msisted that all would be well presently
and as no one but the Little Chemist and the Cur6
were permitted to come in or near the tent, his
anxious followers were fain to content themselves
with the dwarfs assurance of his recovery.
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CHAPTER XIII
1 HE sickness had come like a whirlwind : when
it passed, what would be left ? The fight went on
in the quiet hills — a man of no great stature or
strength, against a monster who racked him in
a fierce embrace. A thousand scenes flashed
through Valmond's brain, before his eyes, while
the great wheel of torture went round, and he was
broken, broken, — mended and broken again, upon
it. Spinning — he was forever spinning, like a tire-
less moth through a fiery air, and the world went
roaring past. In vain he cried to the wheelman
to stop the wheel : there was no answer. Would
those stars never cease blinking in and out, nor
the wind stop whipping the swift clouds past ?
So he went on, endless years, driving through
space, some terrible intangible weight dragging at
his heart, and all his body panting as it spun.
Grotesque faces came and went, and bright-eyed
women floated by, laughing at him, beckoning to
him ; but he could not come, because of this tire-
less going. He heard them singing, he felt the
divine notes in his battered soul ; he tried to weep
for the hopeless joy of it ; but the tears came no
higher than his throat. Why did they mock him
so ? At last, all the figures merged into one, and
V !
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 1 53
she had the face — ah, he had known it well, cen-
turies ago ! — of Madame Chalice. Strange that
she was so young still, and that was so long past
— when he stood on a mountain, and, clambering
a high wall of rock, looked over into a happy No-
man's Land.
Why did the face elude him so, flashing in and
out of the vapors ? Why was its look sorrowful
and distant ? And yet there was that perfect smile,
that adorable aspect of the brow, that light in the
deep eyes. He tried to stop the eternal spinning,
but it went remorselessly on ; and presently the
face was gone ; but not till it had given him ease
of his pain.
Then came fighting, fighting, nothing but fight-
ing— endless charges of cavalry, continuous
wheelings, and advancings, and retreatings, and
the mad din of drums ; afterwards, in a swift quiet,
the deep, even thud of horses' hoofs striking the
ground. Flags and banners flaunted gayly by.
How the helmets flashed, and the foam flew from
the bits ! But those flocks of blackbirds flying
over the heads of the misty horsemen — they made
him shiver. Battle, battle, battle, and death, and
being born — he felt it all.
Suddenly there came a wide peace and clear-
ing, and the everlasting jar and movement ceased.
Then a great pause, and light streamed round
him, comforting him.
It seemed to him that he was lying helpless and
still by falling water in a valley. The water
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154 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
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soothed him, and he fell asleep. After a long
time he waked, and dimly knew that a face, good
to look at, was bending over him. In a vague,
far-off way he saw that it was Elise Malboir ;
but, even as he knew this, his eyes closed, the
world dropped away, and he sank to sleep
again.
It was no fantasy or delirium ; for ^lise had
come. She had knelt beside his bed, and given
him drink, and smoothed his pillow ; and once,
when no one was in the tent, she stooped and
kissed his hot dark lips, and whispered words
that were not for his ears to hear, nor to be heard
by any of this world. The good Cur6 found her
there. He had not heart to bid her go home,
and he made it clear to the villagers that he
approved of her great kindness. But he bade
her mother come also, and she stayed in a tent
near by.
Lagroin and sixty men held the encampment,
and every night the recruits came from the village,
drilled as before, and waited for the fell disease
to pass. None knew its exact nature, but now
and again, in long years, some one going to
Dalgrothe Mountain was seized by it, and died,
or was left stricken with a great loss of the senses
or the limbs. Yet once or twice, they said, men
had come up from it no worse at all. There
was no known cure, and the Little Chemist could
only watch the swift progress of the fever, and use
simple remedies to allay the suffering. Parpon
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WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 1$$
guessed that the disease had seized upon Valmond
the night of the burial of Gabriel. He remem-
bered now the sickly, pungent air that floated
past, and how Valmond, weak from the loss of
blood in the fight at the smithy, shuddered, and
drew his cloak about him. A few days would
end it, for good or ill.
Madame Chalice received the news with con-
sternation, and pity would have sent her to Val-
mond's bedside, but that she had heard that Elise
was his faithful nurse and servitor. This fixed in
her mind the belief that if Valmond died he would
leave both misery and shame behind ; and that if
he lived she should, in any case, see him no more.
But she sent wines and delicacies to him, and de-
spatched a messenger to a city sixty miles away,
for the best physician. Then she sought the avocat
to find whether he had any -exact information as
to Valmond's friends in Quebec or in France.
She had promised not to be his enemy, and she
remembered with a sort of sorrow that she had
even let him believe that she meant to be his
friend ; and, having promised, she would help him
in his sore strait.
She had heard of De la Riviere's visit to Val-
mond, and she intended sending for him, but
delayed it. The avocat told her nothing ; matters
were in abeyance, and she abided the issue ;
meanwhile getting news of the sick man twice
a day. But she used all her influence to keep
up the feeling for him in the parish, to prevent
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156 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
flagging of enthusiasm. This she did out of a
large heart, and a kind of loyalty to her own tem-
perament and to his ardor for his cause. Until
he was proved the comedian (in spite of the young
Seigneur) she would stand by him, so far as his
public career was concerned. Misfortune could
not make her turn from a man ; it was then she
gave him a helping hand. After all, what was
between him and Elise was for their own souls
and consciences.
As she passed the little cottage in the fields the
third morning of Valmond's illness, she saw the
girl entering. Iillise had come to get some neces-
saries for Valmond and for her mother. She was
very pale ; her face had gained a spirituality, a
refinement, new and touching. Madame Chalice
was tempted to go and speak to her, and started
to do so, but turned back.
" No, no, not until we know the worst of this
illness — then ! " she said to herself.
But ten minutes later De la RiviSre was not so
kind. He had guessed a little at ]£lise's secret,
and >f3 he passed the house on the way to visit
Madame Chalice, seeing the girl, he stopped at her
door and said :
" How is the distinguished gentleman, ]£lise ?
I hear you are his slave."
The girl turned a little pale. She was passing
a hot iron over some coarse sheets, and pausing,
she looked steadily at him and replied :
" It is not far to Dalgrothe Mountain, monsieur."
h
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 1 57
•• The journey's too long for me ; I haven't your
hot young blood," he said coarsely.
" It was not so long a dozen years ago,
monsieur."
De la Riviere flushed to his hair. That memory
was a bitter chapter in his life — a boyish folly,
which involved the miller's vv^ife. He had buried
it, the village had forgotten it, — such of it as knew,
— and the remembrance of it stung him. He had,
however, brought it on himself, and he must eat
the bitter fruit.
The girl's eyes were cold and hard. She knew
him to be Valmond's enemy, and she had no idea
of sparing him. She knew also that he had been
courteous enough to send a man each day to in-
quire after Valmond, but that was not to the
point ; he was torturing her, he had prophesied
the downfall of her "spurious Napoleon."
" It will be too long a journey for you, and for
all presently," he said.
•' You mean that his Excellency will die ? " she
asked, her heart beating so hard that it hurt her.
Yet the flat-iron moved backwards and forwards
upon the sheets mechanically.
" Or fight a Government," he answered. " He
has had a good time, and good times can't last
forever, can they, ifelise ? Have you ever thought
of that?"
She gasped for breath and swayed over the table.
In an instant he was beside her ; for, though he
had been irritable and ungenerous, he had at bot-
H
IS8 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
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torn a kind heart. Catching up a glass of water,
he ran an arm round her waist, and held the cup
to her lips.
" What's the matter, my girl ? " he asked.
"There, pull yourself together."
She drew away from him, though grateful for
his new attitude. She could not bear everything.
She felt nervous and strangely weak.
"Won't you go, monsieur?" she said, and
turned to her ironing again.
He looked at her closely, and not unkindly.
For a moment the thought possessed him, that
evil and ill had come to her. But he put it away
from him, for there was that in her eyes which
gave his quick suspicions the lie. He guessed,
however, that the girl loved Valmond, and he left
her with that thought. Going up the hill, deep in
meditation, he called at the Manor, to find that
Madame Chalice was absent, and would not be
back till evening.
When Elise was alone, a weakness seized her
again, as it had done when De la RiviSre was
present. She had had no sleep in four days, and
it was wearing on her, she told herself, refusing
to believe that a sickness was coming. She went
up to her little bedroom, and, leaning against the
open window, figured Valmond in her mind, as
he stood in this place and that, his voice, his >r ,fi
to her, the look in his face, the clasp of hi J.
All at once she fell on her knees before . little
shrine of the Virgin, and burst into tears. Her
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC IS9
rich hair, breaicing loose, flowed round her— the
picture of a Magdalen ; but it was, in truth, a
pure girl with an honest heart. At last she
calmed herself and began to pray :
" Ah, dear Mother of God, thou who dost speak
for the sorrowful before thy Son and the Father, be
merciful to me and hear me. I am but a poor girl,
and my life is no matter. But he is a great man,
and he has work to do, and he is true and kind, and
he loves thy Son. Oh, pray for him, divine Mother,
sweet Mary, that he may be saved from death.
If the cup must be emptied, may it be given to me
to drink ! Oh, see how all the people come to him
and love him ! For the saving of Madelinette,
oh, may his own life be given him ! He cannot
pray for himself, but I pray for him. Dear Mother
of God, I love him, and I would lose my life for
his sake. Sweet Mary, comfort thy child, and
out of thy own sorrow be good to my sorrow.
Hear me and pray for me, divine Mary ! Amen."
Her whole nature emptied itself into this fervid
petition, and there came upon her a strange calm-
ness and clearness of brain, exhausted in body as
she was,
" Madame Ddgardy ! Madame Ddgardy ! " she
cried with sudden inspiration as she rose to her
feet. " Ah, I will find her ; she may save him
with her herbs ! " and hurrying out of the house
and down through the village, she sought the little
hut by the river, where the old woman lived.
^lise had been to Madame Ddgardy as good a
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friend, as a half-mad creature, with no memory,
would permit her. Parpon had lived for years
in the same village, but, though he was her own
son, she had never given him a look of recognition,
had used him as she used £^11 others. In turn, the
dwarf had never told any one but Valmond of the
relationship, and so the two lived their strange
lives in their own singular way. But the Cur^ knew
who it was that kept the old woman's house sup-
plied with wood and other necessaries during the
long winters. Parpon himself had tried to sum-
mon her to Valmond's bedside, for he knew well
her skill with herbs, but the little hut was empty,
and he could get no trace of her. She had disap-
peared the night Valmond was seized of the fever,
and she came back to her little home in the very
heir that Elise visited her. The girl found her
boiling some savory mess before a big tire. She
was stirring the pot diligently, now and then
sprinkling in what looked like a brown dust, and
watching the brew intently.
She nodded, but did not look at Elise, and said
crossly :
" Come in, come in, and shut the door, silly."
" Madame," said the girl, " his Excellency has
the ^)lack fever."
•' What of that ? " returned the old woman,
irritably.
" I thought maybe your herbs could cure him.
You've cured others, and this is an awful sickness.
Ah, won't you save him, if you can ? "
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WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC l6l
" What are you to him, pale face ? " she said,
her eyes peering into the pot.
" Nothing more to him than you are, madame,*'
the girl answered wearily.
" I'll cure because I want, not because you ask
me, pretty brat."
i^lise's heart gave a leap : these very herbs that
were brewing were for Valmond 1 The old woman
had travelled far to get the medicaments immedi-
ately she had heard of Valmond's illness. Night
and day she had trudged, and she was more
brown and weather-beaten than ever.
"The black fever ! the black fever ! " she cried.
" I know it well. It's most like a plague. I know
it. But I know the cure — ha, ha ! Come along
now, feather-legs, what are you staring there for ?
Hold that jug while I pour the darling liquor in.
Ha, ha ! Crazy Joan hasn't lived for nothing.
They have to come to her ; the great folks have to
come to her."
So she meandered on, while filling the jug, and
in the warm dusk they travelled up to Dalgrothe
Mountain, and came to Valmond's tent. By the
couch knelt Parpon, watching the labored breath-
ing of the sick man. When he saw Madame D6-
gardy, he gave a growl of joy, and instantly made
way for her. She pushed him back with her stick
contemptuously, looked Valmond over, ran her
fingers down his cheek, felt his throat, and at
last held his restless hand, j^lise, with the quick
intelligence of love, stood ready. The old woman
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162 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
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caught the jug from her, swung it into the hollow
of her arm, poured the cup half full, and motioned
the girl to lift up Valmond's head, ^^lise raised it
to her bosom, bending her face down close to his.
Madame D^gardy instantly pushed back her head.
*' Don't get his breath— that's death, idiot ! "
she said, and began to slowly pour the liquid into
Valmond's mouth. It was a tedious process at
first, but at length he began to swallow naturally,
and finished the cup.
For an hour there was no change, and then he
became less restless. After another cupful, his
eyes half opened. Within another hour a per-
spiration came, and he was very quiet, and sleep-
ing restfuUy. Parpon crouched near the door,
watching it all with deep piercing eyes. Madame
D^gardy never moved from her place, but stood
shaking her head and muttering. At last Lagroin
came, and whisperingly asked after his master ;
then seeing him in a healthy and peaceful sleep,
he stooped and kissed the hand lying upon the
blanket.
" Beloved sire ! Thank the good God ! " he
said.
Soon after he had gone, there was a noise of
tramping about the tent, and then a suppressed
cheer, which was fiercely stopped by Parpon, and
the soldiers of the Household Troops scattered to
their tents.
"What's that?" asked Valmond, opening his
eyes bewilderedly.
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WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 1 63
" Your soldiers, sire," answered the dwarf.
Valmond smiled languidly. Then he saw Ma-
dame Ddgardy and ]£lise.
" I am very sleepy, dear friends," he said with
a courteous, apologetic gesture, and closed his
eyes.
Presently they opened again. " My snuff-box—
in my pocket," he said to the old woman, waving
a hand to where his uniform hung from the tent-
pole ; " it is for you, madame."
She understood, smiled grimly, felt in a waist-
coat pocket, found the snuff-box, and squatting on
the ground like a tailor, she took two pinches, and
sat holding the enamelled sil.-er box in her hand.
" Crazy Joan's no fool, dear lad," she said at
last, and took another pinch, and nodded her
head again and again, while he slept soundly.
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CHAPTER XIV
Lights out ! "
The bugle rang softly down the valley, echoed
away tenderly in the hills, and was lost in the dis-
tance.
Roused by the clear call, tMse rose from watch-
ing beside Valmond's couch and turned towards
the door of the tent. The spring of a perfect joy
at his safety had been followed by an aching in all
her body and a trouble at her heart. Her feet
were like lead, her spirit quivered and shrank by
turn. The light of the camp-fires sent a glow
through the open doorway upon the face of the
sleeper.
She leaned over him. The look she gave him
seemed to her anxious spirit like a farewell. This
man had given her a new life, and out of this had
come a new sight. Valmond had escaped death,
but in her poor confused way she felt another
storm gathering about him. A hundred feelings
possessed her; but one thought was master of
them all : when trouble drew round him she must
be near him, must be strong to help him, protect
him, if need be. Yet a terrible physical weakness
was on her. Her limbs trembled, and her heart
throbbed in a sickening way.
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WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 165
Valmond stirred in his sleep; a smile passed
over his face. She wondered what gave it birth.
She knew well it was not for her, that smile. It be-
longed to his dream of success — when a thousand
banners should flaunt in the gardens of the Tuile-
ries. Overmastered by a sudden rush of emotion,
she fell on her knees at his bed-side, bursting into
noiseless sobs which shook her from head to
foot. Every nerve in her body responded to the
shock of feeling ; she was having her dark hour
alone.
At last, staggering to her feet, she turned to
the open door. The tents lay silent in the moon-
shine, but wayward lights flickered in the sump-
tuous dusk, and the quiet of the hills hung like a
canopy over the bivouac of the little army. No
token of misfortune came out of this peaceful en-
campment, no omen of disaster crossed the long
lane of drowsy fires and huge amorous shadows.
The sense of doom was in the girl's own heart,
not in this deep cradle of the hills.
Now and again a sentinel crossed the misty
line of vision, silent, and majestically tall, in the
soft haze which came down from Dalgrothe Moun-
tain, and fell like a delicate silver veil before the
face of the valley.
As she looked, lost in a kind of dream, there
floated up from a distant tent the refrain she knew
so well :
" Oh, say, where goes your heart ?
O gai, vive Ic roil"
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Her hand caught her bosom as if to stifle a
sudden pain. That song had been the keynote
to her new life, and it seemed now as if it were
also to be the final benediction. All her spirit
gathered itself up for a great resolution : she
would not yield to this invading weakness, this
misery of body and mind.
Someone drew out of the shadows and came
towards her. It was Madame D^gardy. She had
seen the sobbing figure inside the tent, but with
the occasional wisdom of the foolish of this world,
she had not been less considerate than the chil-
dren of light.
With brusque, kindly taps of her stick, she drove
the girl to her own tent, and bade her sleep ; but
sleep was not for Elise that night, and in the gray
dawn, while yet no one was stirring in the camp,
she passed slowly down the valley to her home.
Madame Chalice was greatly troubled also.
Valmond's life was saved. In two days he was
on his feet, eager and ardent again, and preparing
to go to the village : but what would the end of it
all be ? She knew of De la Riviere's intentions,
and she foresaw a crisis. If Valmond were in
very truth a Napoleon, all might be well, though
this great adventure must close here. If he were
an impostor, things would go cruelly hard with
him. Impostor ? Strange, how, in spite of all
evidence against him, she siiU felt a sureness in
him somewhere ; a radical reality, a convincing
quality of presence. At times he seemed like an
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 1 67
]
actor playing his own character. She could never
quite get rid of that feeling.
In her anxiety, for she was in the affair for good
or ill, she went again to Monsieur Garon.
" You believe in Monsieur Valmond, dear avo-
cat ? " she asked.
The little man looked at her admiringly, though
his admiration was a quaint, Arcadian thing ;
and, perching his head on one side abstractedly,
he answered :
"Ah, yes, ah, yes! Such candor! He is the
son of Napoleon and a princess, born after Napo-
leon's fall, not long before his death."
" Then Monsieur Valmond is really name-
less ?" she asked.
" Ah, there is the point — the only point ; but
his Excellency can clear up all that, and will dc so
in good time, he says. He maintains that France
will accept him."
"But the government here, will they put him
down ? proceed against him ? Can they ? "
" Ah, yes, I fear they can proceed against him.
He may recruit men, but he may not drill and
conspire — and so on. Yet " — the old man smiled,
as though at some distant and pleasing prospect —
"the cause is a great one ; it is great. Ah, madame,
dearmadame" — he got to his feet, and stepped into
the middle of the floor — "he has thetrue Napoleonic
spirit. He loves it all. At the very first, it seemed
as if he were going to be a little ridiculous ; now it
is as if there was but one thing for him — love of
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France, and loyalty to the cause. Ah, think of the
glories of the Empire : of France as the light ot
Europe, of Napoleon making her rich, and proud,
and dominant. And think of her now, sinking into
the wallow of bourgeois vulgarity. If — if, as his
Excellency said, the light were to come from here,
even from this far corner of the world, from this
old France, to be the torch of freedom once again
— from our little parish here ! "
His face was glowing, his thin hands made a
quick gesture of charmed anticipation.
Madame Chalice looked at him in a sort of
wonder and delight. Dreamers all ! And this
visionary Napoleon had come into the little man's
quiet, cultured, passive life, and had transformed
him, filled him with adventure and patriotism.
There must be something behind Valmond, some
real, even some great thing, or this were not pos-
sible. It was not surprising that she, with the
spirit of dreams and romance deep in her, should
be sympathetic, even carried away for the mo-
ment.
" How is the feeling in the parish since his ill-
ness ? " she asked.
" Never so strong as now. Many new recruits
come to him. Organization goes on, and his Excel-
lency has issued a proclamation. I have advised
him against that — it is not necessary, it is illegal.
He should not tempt our Government too far.
But he is a man of as great simplicity as courage,
of directness and virtue — a wholesome soldier "
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WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 1 69
She thought again of that moonlit night, and
]£lise's window, and a kind of hatred of the man
came up in her. No, no, they all were wrong, he
was not the true thing.
"Dear avocat," she said suddenly, "you are a
good friend. May I always have as good ! But
have you ever thought that this thing may end in
sore disaster ? Is the man worthy our friendship
and our adherence ? Are we doing right ? "
"Ah, dear madame, convictions, principles,
truth, they lead to good ends — somewhere. I
have a letter here from Monsieur Valmond. It
breathes noble things ; it has humor, too— ah,
yes, so quaint ! I am to see him this afternoon.
He returns to the Louis Quinze to-day. The Cur^
and I "
She laid her hand on his arm, interrupting
him. "Will you take me this evening to Mon-
sieur Valmond, dear friend ? " she asked.
She saw now how useless it was to attempt any-
thing through these admirers of Valmond ; she
must do it herself. He must be firmly warned
and dissuaded. The conviction had suddenly come
to her with great force, that the end was near
come to her as it came to :^lise. Her wise
mind had seen the sure end ; the heart of the
peasant girl had felt it.
The avocat readily promised. She was to call
for him at a little before eight o'clock. But she
decided that she would first seek ]£lise ; before
she accused the man, she would question the
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170 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
woman. Above and beyond all anger she felt at
this miserable episode, there was pity in her heart
for the lonely girl.
Madame Chalice was capable of fierce tempers,
of great caprices, of even wild injustice, when her
emotions had their way with her ; but her heart
was large, her nature deep and broad, and her in-
stincts kind. The little touch of barbarism in her
gave her, too, a sense of primitive justice. She
was self-analytical, critical of life and conduct, yet
her mind and her heart, when put to the great
test, were above mere analysis.
Her rich nature, alive with these momentous
events, feeling the prescience of coming crisis,
sent a fine glow into her face, into her eyes. Ex-
citement gave a fresh elasticity to her step. In
spite of her serious thoughts, she looked very
young, almost irresponsible. No ordinary ob-
server could guess the mind that lay behind
the glowing eyes. Even the tongue at first de-
ceived, till it began to probe, to challenge, to
drop sharp, incisive truths in little gold-leaved
pellets, which brought conviction when the gold-
leaf wore off.
The sunlight made her part of the brilliant
landscape, and she floated into it, neither too
dainty nor too luxurious. The greatest heat
of the day was past, and she was walking slowly
under the maples, on the way to ^lise's home,
when she was arrested by a voice near her. Then
a tall figure leaped the fence, and came to her with
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WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC I7I
outstretched hand and an unmistakable smile of
pleasure.
"I've called at the Manor twice, and found you
out, so I took to the highway," he said gayly.
" My dear Seigneur," she answered with mock
gravity, " ancestors' habits show in time."
" Come, that's severe, isn't it ? "
" You have waylaid me in a lonely place, master
highwayman ! " she said with a torturing sweet-
ness.
He had never seen her so radiantly debonair ;
yet her heart was full of annoying anxiety.
" There's so much I want to say to you," he
answered more seriously.
" So very much ? "
" Very much indeed."
She looked up the road. " I can give you ten
minutes," she said. "Suppose we walk up and
down under these trees. It's shady and quiet here.
Now, proceed, monsieur. Is it my money or my
life ? "
" You are in a charming mood to-day."
" Which is more than I could say for you the
last time we met. You threatened, stormed, were
childish, impossible to a degree."
His face became grave. " We were such good
friends once," he said softly.
" Once — once ? " she asked maliciously. " Once
Cain and Abel were a happy family. When was
that once. Monsieur De la Riviere ?"
" Two years ago. What talks we had then !
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172 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
And I had so looked forward to your coming
again. It was the alluring thing in my life, your
arrival," he went on ; " but something came be-
tween."
His tone nettled her. He talked as if he had
some distant claim on her.
"Something came between," she repeated
slowly, mockingly. "That sounds melodramatic
indeed. What was it came between — a coach-
and-four, or a grand army ? "
" Nothing so stately," he answered, piqued by
her tone. "A filibuster and his ragamuffins."
" Ragamuffins would be appreciated by Mon-
sieur Valmond's followers, spoken at the four
corners," she answered.
" Then I'll change it," he said : " a ragamuffin
and his filibusters."
" The ' ragamuffin ' always speaks of his enemies
with courtesy, and the filibusters love their leader,"
was her tart rejoinder.
" At half a dollar a day," he answered sharply.
"They get that much from his Excellency, do
they ? " she asked in real surprise. " That doesn't
look like filibustering, does it ? "
" ' His Excellency * ! " he retorted. " Why won't
you look this matter straight in the face ? Napo-
leon, or no Napoleon, the end of this thing is ruin."
"Take care that you don't get lost in the
debris," she said bitingly.
" I can take care of myself. I am sorry to have
you mixed up in it."
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 173
" You are sorry ! How good of you ! How
paternal ! "
" If your husband were here "
"If my husband were here, you would prob-
ably be his best friend," she rejoined with acid
sweetness ; " and I should still have to take care
of myself."
Had he no sense of what was possible to leave
unsaid to a woman ? She was very angry, though
she was also a little sorry for him ; for perhaps in
the long run he would be in the right. But he
must pay for his present stupidity.
"You wrong me," he answered with a quick
burst of feeling. "You are most unfair. You
punish me because I do my public duty ; and be-
cause I would do anything in the world for you,
you punish me the more. Have you forgotten
two years ago ? Is it so easy to your hand, a true
and constant admiration, a sincere homage, that
you throw it aside like ? "
" Monsieur De la Riviere," she said with exas-
perating deliberation, her eyes filling with a dan-
gerous light, " your ten minutes is more than up.
And it has been quite ten minutes too long."
" If I were a filibuster " he said bitterly
and suggestively.
She interrupted him, murmuring with a purring
softness : " If you had only courage enough ! "
He waved his hand angrily. "If I had, I should
hope you would prove a better friend to me than
you are to this man."
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174 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
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" Ah, in what way do I fail toward ' this man '? "
"By encouraging his downfall. See — I know
I am taking my life in my hands, as it were, but I
tell you this thing will do you harm when it goes
abroad."
She felt the honesty of his words, though they
angered her. He seemed to impute some per-
sonal interest in Valmond. She would not have
it from any man in the world.
" If you will pick up my handkerchief — ah, thank
ycu ! We must travel different roads in this mat-
ter. You have warned ; let me prophesy : Mon-
sieur Valmond — Napoleon will come out of this
with more honor than yourself."
" Thanks to you, then," he said gallantly, for
he admired her very stubbornness.
" Thanks to himself. I honestly believe that you
will be ashamed of your part in this, one day."
" In any case, I will force the matter to a con-
clusion," he answered firmly. " The fantastic
thing must end."
"When?"
" Within two or three days."
" When all is over, perhaps you will have the
honesty to come and tell me which was right —
you or I. Good-by."
He watched her sulkily as she left him, dipping
her parasol in mocking salutation, and turned her
steps towards the Malboir cottage.
Elise was busy at her kitchen fire. She looked
up, nervously, as her visitor entered. Her heavy
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 1 75
brow grew heavier, her eyes gleamed sulkily, as
she dragged herself wearily forward, and stood
silent and resentful. Why had this lady of the
Manor, come to her ?
Madame Chalice scarcely knew how to begin,
for in truth, she wanted to be the girl's friend,
and she feared making her do, or say some wild
thing.
She looked round the quiet room. A pot of fruit
was boiling on the stove, giving out a fragrant savor,
and Elise's eye was on it mechanically. A bit of
sewing lay across a chair, and on the wall hung a
military suit of the old sergeant, beside it a short
sabre. An old tricolor was draped from a beam,
and one or two maps of France were pinned on
the wall. She fastened her look on the maps.
They seemed to be her cue.
" Have you any influ^^nce with your uncle ? "
she asked.
;^Iise did not answer.
" Because," Madame Chalice went on smoothly,
ignoring her silence, "I think it would be better
for him to go back to Ville Bambord — I am sure
of it."
The girl's lip curled angrily. What right had
this great lady to interfere with her or hers ?
What did she mean ?
" My uncle is a general and a brave man ; he
can take care of himself," she answered defi-
antly.
Madame Chalice did not smile at the title. She
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17C WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
admired the girl's courage. She persisted, how-
ever.
" He is one man, and "
" He has plenty of men, madame, and his Ex-
cellency "
" His Excellency and hundreds of men cannot
stand if the Government send soldiers against
thetn."
'• Why should the Gover'ment do that ? They're
only going to France ; they mean no trouble
here."
" They have no right to drill and conspire here,
my girl."
" Well, my uncle and his men will fight ; we'll
all fight," Elise retorted, her hands grasping the
arms of the rocking-chair she sat in.
" But why shouldn't we avoid fighting ? What
is there to fight for ? You are all very happy here.
You were very happy here before Monsieur Val-
mond came. Are you happy now ? "
Madame Chalice's eyes searched the flushed
face anxiously. She was growing more eager
every moment to serve, if she could, this splendid
creature.
"We would die for him !" answered the girl,
quickly.
"Vou would die for him," she said slowly and
meaningly.
"And what's it to you, if I would ? " came the
sharp retort. "Why do you fine people meddle
yourselves with poor folks' affairs ? "
WHEN VALMf ND CAME TO PONTIAC 1 77
Then, remembering she was a hostess, with the
instinctive courtesy of her race, she said : " Ah,
pardon, madame ; you meant nothing, I'm
sure."
"Why should fine folk make poor folk unhap-
py ? " said Madame Chalice, quietly and sor-
rowfully, for she saw that Elise was suffering,
and all the woman in her came to her heart and
lips. She laid her hand on the girl's arm. "In-
deed yes, why should fine folk make poor folk
unhappy ? It is not I alone who make you un-
happy, lillise."
The girl shook off the hand resentfully, for she
guessed the true significance of Madame Chalice's
words.
"What are you trying to find out ? " she asked
fiercely. " What do you want to do ? Did I ever
come in your way ? Why do you come into mine ?
What's my life to you ? Nothing, nothing at all.
You're here to-day and away to-morrow. You're
English ; you're not of us. Can't you see that I
want to be left alone ? If I were unhappy I could
look after myself. But I'm not, I'm not. I tell
you I'm not. I'm happy. I never knew what hap-
piness was till now. I'm so happy that I can
stand here and not insult you, though you've in-
sulted me."
" I meant no insult, I^lise. I want to help you ;
that is all. I know how hard it is to confide in
one's relatives, and I v/ish with all my heart I
might be your friend, if you ever need me."
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178 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
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The girl met her sympathetic look clearly and
steadily.
" Speak plain to me, madame," she said.
"Elise, I saw some one climb out of your bed-
room window," was the slow reply.
"Oh, my God ! oh, my God !" she cried, star-
ing blankly for a moment at Madame Chalice.
Then, trembling greatly, she reached to the table
for a cup of water.
Madame Chalice was at once by her side. " You
are ill, poor girl," she said anxiously, and put
her arm around her.
Elise drew away.
" I will tell you all, madame, all ; and you must
believe it, for, as God 'S my judge, it is the truth."
Then she told the whole story, exactly as it hap-
pened, save mention of the kisses that Valmond
had given her. Her eyes now and again filled
with tears, and she tried, in her poor untutored
way, to set him right ; she spoke for him alto-
gether, not for herself; and her listener saw that
the bond which held the girl to the man might
be proclaimed in the streets, with no dishonor.
"That's the story, and that's the truth," said
;^lise at last. " He's a gentleman, a great man,
and I'm a poor girl, and there can be nothing be-
tween us ; but I'd die for him."
She no longer resented Madame Chalice's so-
licitude : she was passive, and showed that she
wished to be ale e.
" You think there's going to be great trouble ? "
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 1 79
so-
she
she asked, as Madame Chalice made ready to
go-
" I fear so, but we will do all we can to pre-
vent it."
She walked slowly toward the Manor in the
declining sunlight, and Elise turned heavily to
her work again.
There came to the girl's ears the sound of a
dog-churn in the yard outside, and the dull roll
and beat seemed to keep time to the aching pulses
in her head, in all her body. One thought kept
circling through her brain : there was, as she had
felt, trouble coming for Valmond. She felt, too,
that it was very near. Her one definite idea
was that she should be able to go to him when
that trouble came ; that she should not fail him
at his great need. Yet these pains in her body,
this alternate exaltation and depression, this pitiful
weakness I She must conquer it. She remem-
bered the hours spent at his bedside ; the
moments when he was all hers — by virtue of his
danger, and her own unwavering care of him. She
recalled the dark moment, when Death, intrusive,
imminent, lurked at the tent door, and when in
its shadow she emptied out her soul in that one
kiss of fealty and farewell.
That kiss — there came to her again, suddenly,
Madame D^gardy's cry of warning, " Don't get
his breath, idiot. It's death ! "
Death ! So that was it : the black fever was in
her veins ! That kiss had sealed her own doom.
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1 80 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
Ik
irt\
She knew it now. He had given her life by giving
her love. Well, he should give her death too —
her lord of life and death. She was of the chosen
few who could drink the cup of light, and the cup
of darkness, with equally regnant soul.
But it might lay her low in tha very hour of
Valmond's trouble. She must conquer it — how ?
To whom could she turn for succor ? There
was but one — yet she could not seek Madame
Degardy, for the old woman would drive her to
her bed, and keep her there. There was but this
to do : to possess herself of those wonderful herbs
which had been given her Napoleon in his hour
of peril.
Dragging herself wearily to the little hut by the
river, she knocked, and waited. All was still,
and opening the door, she entered. She caught
up a candle, lighted it, and then began her
search. Under an old pan, on a shelf, she found
both herbs and powder. Snatching a handful of
the herbs, she kissed them with joyful heart.
Saved — she was saved ! Ah, thank the Blessed
Virgin ! She would thank her forever !
A horrible sinking sensation seized her. Turn-
ing in pain and dismay, she saw the face of Parpon
at the window. With a blind instinct for protec-
tion, she staggered towards the door, and fell, her
fingers still clasping the precious medicants.
As Parpon hastily entered, Madame D(?gardy
hobbled out of the shadow ot the trees, and fur-
tively watched the hut. When the light appeared,
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC l8l
she crept to the door, and opened it stealthily
upon the intruders of her home.
Parpon was kneeling by the unconscious girl,
lifting up her head, and looking at her in horrified
distress.
With a shrill cry she came forward and dropped
on her knees at the other side of lilise. Her hand,
fumbling anxiously over the girl's breast, met the
hard and warty palm of the dwarf. She stopped
suddenly, raised the sputtering candle, and peered
into his eyes with a vague, wavering intensity.
For minutes they knelt there, the silence clothing
them about, the body of the girl between them.
A lost memory was feeling blindly its way home
again. By and by, out of an infinite past, some-
thing struggled to the old woman's eyes, and Tar-
pon's heart almost burst in his anxiety. At
length her look steadied. Memory, recognition,
showed in her face.
With a wild cry her gaunt arms stretched across,
and caught the great head to her breast.
" Where have you been so long, my son, my
son?" she said.
n
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CHAPTER XV
r
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V.
ALMOND'S strength came back quickly, but
something had given his mind a new color. He
felt, by a strange telegraphy of fate, that he had
been spared death by fever, to meet an end more
in keeping with the strange adventure which now
was coming to a crisis. The next day he was
going back to Dalgrothe Mountain, the day after
that there should be a final review, and the suc-
ceeding day, the march to the sea would begin.
There could be no more delay. A move must be
made. He had so lost himself in the dream, that
it had become real, and he himself was the splen-
did adventurer, the maker of empires. True, he
had but a small band of ill-armed men, but better
arms could be got, and by the time they reached
the sea — who could tell !
As he sat alone in the quiet dusk of his room
at the Louis Quinze, waiting for Parpon, there
came a tap at his door. It opened, the gargon
mumbled something, and Madame Chalice entered
unattended.
Her look had no particular sympathy, but there
was a sort of friendliness in the rich color of her
face, in the brightness of her eyes.
•' The avocat was to have accompanied me,"
i • ■ »
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WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 1 83
she said ; "but at the last I thought it better to
come vvj.hout him, because ."
She paused. -Yes, madame-because ? " he
asi<ed. offering her a chair. He was dressed in
simple black, as on that first day when he called
at the Manor, and it set off the ivory paleness
of his complexion, making his face delicate vet
strong. '
She looked round the room, almost casually
before she went on.
" Because what I have to say were better said
to you alone— much better."
"I am sure you are right." he answered, as
though he trusted her judgment utterly ; and truly
there was always something boy-like in his attitude
towards her. The compliment was unstudied and
pleasant, but she steeled herself for her task She
knew instinctively that she had influence with him
and she meant to use it to its utmost limit.
" I am glad, we are all glad, you are better "
she said cordially; then added: "How do your
affairs come on ? What are your plans ? "
Valmond forgot that she was his inquisitor : he
only saw her as his ally, his friend. So he spoke
to her, as he had done at the Manor, with a sort
of eloquence of his great theme. He had chano-ed
greatly. The rhetorical, the bizarre, had left his
speech. There was no more grandiloquence than
might be expected of a soldier who saw things in
the bright flashes of the battle-field-sharp pinjres
of color, the dyes well soaked in. He had the gift
\h
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1 84 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
,H. '
of telling a story : some peculinr thubrc in the
voice, some direct dramatic touch. She listened
quietly, impressed and curious. The impossibili-
ties seemed for a moment to vanish in the big
dream, and she herself was a dreamer, a born ad-
venturer among the wonders of life. If she had
been a man she should have been an explorer or a
soldier.
But her mind speedily reasserted itself, and she
gathered herself together for the unpleasant task
that lay before her.
She looked him steadily in the eyes. " I have
come to tell you that you must give up this
dream," she said slowly. " It can come to nothing
but ill ; and in the mishap you may be hurt past
repair."
" I shall never give up — this dream," he said,
surprised but firm, almost dominant.
" Think of these poor folk who surround you,
who follow you. Would you see harm come to
them?"
" As soldiers, they will fight for a cause."
"What is — the cause ? " she asked meaningly.
" France," was the quiet reply.
" Not so— yon, monsieur ! "
" You called me sire once," he said tenta-
tively.
"I called my maid a fool yesterday, under
some fleeting influence ; one has moods," she
answered.
" If you would call me simpleton to-morrow, we
r'-;
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 185
might strike a balance and find-vvhat should we
"An adventurer. I fear," she remarked.
h.'T' T ^' ^ ^°''' "^" adventurer truly "
he said. -It isavery long way to France and
there is much to do." '^c, ana
tamed man with the enthusiast and comedian she
had seen in the Curb's garden
•'Monsieur Valmond." she said. "I neither sus-
pec nor accuse ; I only feel. There is something
clams. You have no right to waste lives."
^ To waste lives.? "he asked curiously,
you." '' ^^^ Government is to proceed against
"Ah. yes." he answered. "Monsieur De la
Riviere has seen to that ; but he must pay for his
mterference." ^ -^ ^
"That is beside the point. If a force comes
against you— what then ? "
"Then I will act as becomes a Napoleon." he
answered rather grandly.
So. there was a touch of the bombastic in his
Then all a once her thoughts reverted to I^lise
and some latent cruelty in her awoke. Though
she believed the girl, she would accise the man
he more so because she suddenly became aware
^hat is eyes were fixed on herself in ardent ad-
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" You might not have a convenient window,"
she said v^ith deliberate consuming malevolence.
His glance never wavered, though he under-
stood instantly what she meant. So, she had dis-
covered that ! He flushed.
"Madame," he said, "I hope that I am a gen-
tleman at heart ! "
The whole scene came back on him, and a
moisture sprang to his eyes.
" She is innocent," he said — " upon my sacred
honor ! Yes, yes, I know that the evidence is all
against me, but I speak the absolute truth. You
saw — that night, did you ? "
She nodded.
" Ah, it is a pity — a pity. But, madame, as you
are a true woman, believe what I say ; for, I
repeat, it is the truth."
Then, with admirable reticence, even great
delicacy, he told the story as tAise had told it, and
as convincingly.
•' I believe you, monsieur," she said frankly,
when he had done, and stretched out her hand to
him with a sudden impulse of regard. " Now,
follow that unselfishness by another."
He looked inquiringly at her.
'• Give up your adventure," she added eagerly.
" Never," was his instant reply, " never ! "
" I beg of you, I appeal to you — my friend,"
she urged, possessed of the ardor of the counsel
who pleads a bad case. " I do not impeach you
or your claims, but I ask that you leave this vil-
i\
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 1 87
you
vil-
lage as you found it, these happy people undis-
turbed in their homes. Ah, go ! Go now, and
you will be a name to them, remembered always
with admiration. You have been courageous,
you have been liked, you have been inspiring —
ah, yes, I admit it, even to me ! — inspiring. The
spirit of adventure in you, your hopes, your plans
to do great things, roused me. It was that made
me your friend more than aught else. Truly
and frankly, I do not think that I am convinced
of anything save that you are no coward, and
that you love a cause. Let it go at that — you
must, you must. You came in the night, pri-
vately and mysteriously ; go in the night, this
night, mysteriously — an inscrutable, romantic fig-
ure. If you are all you say — and I should be
glad to think so — go where your talents will have
greater play, your claims larger recognition.
This is a small game here. Leave us as you
came. We shall be the better for it ; our poor folk
here will be the better for it. Stay, and who can
tell what may happen ? I was wrong, wrong — I
see that now — to have encouraged you at all.
I repent of it. Here, as I talk to you, I feel, with
no doubt whatever, that the end of your bold
exploit is near. Can you not see that ? Ah, yes,
you must, you must ! Take my horses to-night,
leave here, and come back no more ; and none of
us shall feel sorry in thinking of the time when
Valmond came to Pontiac."
Variable, accusing, she had suddenly shown
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I88 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
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him something beyond caprice, beyond accident
of mood or temper. The true woman had spoken ;
all outer modish garments had dropped away from
her real nature, and revealed its abundant depth
and sincerity. All that was roused in him at this
moment, was never known ; he never could tell it.
There were eternal spaces between them. She
had been speaking to him just now with no per-
sonal sentiment. She was only the lover of honest
things, the friend, the good comrade, obliged to
flee a cause for its terrible unsoundness, yet try-
ing to prevent wreck and ruin.
He arose and turned his head away for an in-
stant, so moving had been her eloquence. His
glance caught the picture of the Great Napoleon,
and his eyes met hers again with new resolu-
tion.
"I must stay," he answered ; "I will not turn
back, whatever comes. This is but child's play,
but a speck beside what I mean to do. True, I
came in the dark, but I will go in the light. I
shall not leave them behind, these poor folk ;
they shall come with me. I have money, France
is waiting, the people are sick of the Bourbons, I
have the great love of our cause, and "
'• But you must, you must listen to me, mon-
sieur," she said desperately.
She came close to him, and out of the frank
eagerness of her nature, laid her hand upon his
arm, and looked him in the eyes with an almost
tender appealing.
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 1 89
At that moment the door opened, and Monsieur
De la Riviere was announced.
" Ah, madame," said the young Seigneur, in a
tone more than a little acrid, "secrets of state, no
doubt?"
"Statesmen need not commit themselves to
newsmongers, monsieur," she answered, still
standing very near Valmond, as though she would
continue a familiar talk when the disagreeable in-
terruption had passed. She was thoroughly fear-
less, clear of heart, above all littlenesses.
" I had come to warn Monsieur Valmond once
again, but I find him with his ally, counsellor —
and comforter," he retorted with perilous sugges-
tion.
Time would move on, and Madame Chalice
might forget that wild remark, but she never
would forgive it, and she never wished to do so.
The insolent, petty, provincial Seigneur !
" Monsieur De la Riviere," she returned with
icy dignity, "you cannot live long enough to
atone for that impertinence."
" I beg your pardon, madame," he returned earn-
estly, awed by the look in her face, for she was
thoroughly aroused. "I came to stop a filibuster-
ing expedition, to save the credit of the place
where I was born, where my people have lived
for generations."
She made a quick, deprecatory gesture. "You
saw me enter here," she said, "and you thought
to discover treason of some kind — Heaven knows
, 1
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190 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
t
what a mind like yours may imagine ! You find
me giving better counsel to Monsieur Valmond
than you could ever hope to give — out of a better
heart and from a better understanding. You have
been worse than intrusive ; you have been rash
and stupid. You call his Excellency filibuster and
impostor. I assure you it is my fondest hope
that Prince Valmond Napoleon, will ever count
me among his friends, in spite of all his ene-
mies."
She turned her shoulder on him, and took VaU
mond's hand with a pronounced obeisance, saying,
•'Adieu, sire" (she was never sorry she had said
it), and passed from the room. Valmond was
about to follow her.
*• Thank you, no, I will go to my carriage
alone," she said, and he did not insist.
When she had gone he stoou holding the door
open, and looking at De la Riviere. He was very
pale ; there was a menacing fire in his eyes. The
young Seigneur was ready for battle also.
"I am occupied, monsieur," said Valmond,
meaningly.
•' I have come to warn you "
•• The old song; I am occupied, monsieur."
" Charlatan ! " said De la Riviere, and took a
step angrily towards him, for he was losing com-
mand of himself.
At that moment Parpon, who had been lurking
outside in the hall for a half hour or more,
stepped into the room, came between the two,
: Val-
said
was
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC I91
and looked up with a mocking leer at the young
Seigneur.
" You have twenty-four hours to leave Pontiac,"
cried De la Rivi6re, as he left the room.
"My watch keeps different time, monsieur,"
said Valmond, coolly, and closed the door.
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CHAPTER XVI
JT* ROM the depths where tMse was cast, it was
not for her to see that her disaster had brought
light to others ; that out of the pitiful confusion
of her life had come order and joy. A half-mad
woman, without memory, knew again whence she
came and whither she was going ; and, bewildered
and happy, with a hungering tenderness, moved
her hand over the head of her poor dwarf, as
though she would know if he were truly her own
son. A new spirit also had come into Parpon's
eyes, gentler, less weird, less distant. With the
advent of their joy a great yearning came to them
to save ^lise. They hung over her bed, watchful,
solicitous.
It must go hard with her, and twenty-four hours
would see the end, or afresh beginning. She had
fought back the fever too long, her brain and
emotions had been strung to a fatal pitch, and the
disease, like a hurricane, carried her on for hours.
Her own mother sat in a corner, stricken and
numb. At last she fell asleep in her chair, but
Parpon and his mother slept not at all. Now
and again the dwarf went to the door and looked
out at the night— still, and full of the wonder of
growth and rest.
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 1 93
Far up on Dalgrothe Mountain, a soft brazen
light lay like a shield against the sky, a mys-
tical, hovering thing. He knew it to be the
reflection of the camp-fires in the valley, where
Lagroin and his men were sleeping. There came
out of the general stillness a long, low murmur, as
though nature were crooning : the untiring rustle
of the river, the water that rolled on and never
came back again. Where did they all go — those
thousands of rivers forever pouring on, lazily
or wildly ? What motive ? What purpose ? Just
to empty themselves into the greater waters, there
to be lost ? Was it enough to travel on so inevit-
ably to the end, and be swallowed up ?
And these millions of lives hurrying along ?
Was it worth while living, only to grow older and
older, and coming sooner or later to the Home-
stead of the Ages, enter a door that opened only
inward, and be swallowed up in the twilight ?
Why arrest the travelling, however swift it be ?
Sooner or later it must come — with dusk the end
of it.
The dwarf heard the moaning of the stricken
girl, her cry of " Valmond ! Valmond ! " the sobs
that followed, the woe of her self-abnegation, even
in delirium.
For one's self it mattered little, maybe, the atti-
tude of the mind, whether it would arrest or be
glad of the terrific travel ; but for another human
being, who might judge ? Who might guess what
was best for another, what was most merciful,
13
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194 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
Pa
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most good ? Destiny meant us to prove our case
against it, as long and as well as we might ; to
establish our right to be here as long as we could,
so discovering the world day by day, and our-
selves to the world, and ourselves to ourselves.
To live it out, resisting the power that destroys, to
the end — that was the divine secret.
" Valmond ! Valmond ! oh Valmond ! "
The voice wailed out the words again and again.
Through the sounds there came another inner
voice, that resolved all the crude, primitive
thoughts here defined ; vague, elusive, in Par-
pon's own brain.
The girl's life should be saved at any cost, even
if to save it meant the awful and certain alterna-
tive doom his mother had whispered to him over
the bed an hour before.
He turned and went into the house. The old
woman bent above l^lise, watching intently, her
eyes straining, her lips anxiously compressed.
" My son," she said, "she will die in an hour if
I don't give her more. If I do, she may die at
once. If she gets well, she will bii " She
made a motion to her eyes.
•• Blind, mother, blind ? " he whispered, and he
looked round the room. How good was the sight
of the eyes !
" Perhaps she would rather die," said the old
woman. " She is unhappy." She was thinking
of her own far, bitter past, remembered now after
so many years. " Misery and blindness too — ah !
PR
1
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 1 95
What right have I to make her blind ? It's a
great risk, Parpon, my dear son."
" I must, I must, for your sake. Valmond »
Vaimond ! oh Valmond ! " cried I':iise again out
of her delirium. The stricken girl had answered
for Parpon. She had decided for herself. Lile !
that was all she prayed for : for another's sake,
not her own.
Her mother slept on in the corner of the
room, unconscious of the terrible verdict hanging
in the balance.
Madame D^gardy emptied into a cup of liquor,
the strange brown powder, mixed it, and held it
to the girl's lips, pouring it slowly down.
Once, twice, during the next hour a low, an-
guished voice filled the room ; but just as dawn
came, Parpon stooped, and tenderly wiped a soft
moisture from the face lying so quiet and peace-
ful now, against the pillow.
"She breathes easy, poor pretty bird!" said
the old woman, gently.
" She'll never see again ? " asked Parpon. mourn-
fully.
" Never a thing while she lives," was the whis-
pered reply.
"But she has her life," said the dwarf; "she
wished it so."
"What's the good?" The old woman had
divined why £lise had wanted to live.
The dwarf did not answer. His eyes wandered
about abstractedly, and fell upon the sleeping
I
196 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
mother, unconscious of the awful peril passed,
and the painful salvation come to her daughter.
The bluegray light of morning showed under the
edge of the closed window-blind. Day was min-
gling incongruously with night in the little room.
Parpon opened the door and went out. Morn
was spreading slowly over the drowsy landscape.
There was no life as yet in all the horizon, no
fires, no animals stining, no early workmen, no
anxious harvesters. But the birds were out, and
presently here and there cattle rose up in the
fields.
Then, over the foot-hills, he saw a white horse
and its rider, show up against the gray dust of the
road.
l^lise's sorrowful cry came to him : " Valmond !
Valmond ! oh Valmond !"
His duty to the girl was done ; she was safe ;
now he must follow that figure to where the smoke
of the camp-fires, came curling up by Dalgrothe
Mountain. There were rumors of trouble : he
must again be minister, counsellor, friend to his
master.
A half hour later he was climbing the hill where
he had seen the white horse and its rider. The
sound of a drum came from the distance. The
gloom and suspense of the night just passed went
from him, and into the sunshine he sang :
it
Oh, grand to the war he goes,
O ^aiy vive le roi ! "
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC I97
Not long afterwards he entered the encamp-
ment. Around one fire, cooking their breakfasts,
were Muroc the charcoalman, Duclosse the meal-
man, and Garotte the limeburner. They all were
in good spirits.
" For my part," Muroc was saying, as Parpon
nodded at them, and passed by, " I'm not satisfied."
•' Don't you get enough to eat ? " asked the meal-
man, whose idea of happiness was based upon the
appreciation of a good dinner.
"But yes, and enough to drink, thanks to his
Excellency, and the buttoi . he put or my coat."
Muroc jingled some gold coins i*j his pocket. " It's
this being clean, that's the devil I When I sold
charcoal, I was black and beautiful, and no dirt
showed ; I polished like a pan. Now, if I touch
a potato I'm filthy. Pipe-clay is hell's btrff to
show you up as the Lord made you."
Garotte laughed. " Wait till you get to fight-
ing. Powder sticks better than charcoal. For
my part, I'm always clean as a whistle."
•• But you're like a bit of wool, limeburner,
you nevp' sweat. Dirt don't stick to you as to
me and .iie mealman. Duclosse there, used to
look like a pie when the meal and sweat dried on
him. When we reach Paris, and his Excellency
gets his own, I'll take to charcoal again ; I'll fill
the palace cellars. That suits me better than
chalk, and washing every day."
" Do you think we'll ever get to Paris ? " asked
the mealman, cocking his head seriously.
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198
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
" That's the will of God, and the weather at
sea, and what the Bourbons do," answered Muroc,
grinning-.
It was hard to tell how deep this adventure lay
in Muroc's mind. He had a prodigious sense of
humor, the best critic in the world.
" For me," said the limeburner, " I think there'll
be fighting before we get to the Bourbons. There's
talk that the Gover'ment's coming against us."
" Done ! " said the charcoalman. " We'll see
the way our great man puts their noses out of
joint."
" Here's Lajeunesse," broke in the mealman, as
the blacksmith came near to their fire. He was
dressed in complete regimentals, made by the
parish tailor.
"Is that so, Monsieur le Capitaine ? " asked
Muroc. " Is the Gover'ment to be fighting us ?
Why should it ? We're only for licking the Bour-
bons, and who cares a sou for them, eh ? "
" Not a go'-dam," said Uuclosse, airing his
favorite oath. "The English hate the Bourbons
too."
Lajeunesse looked from one to the other, then
burst into a laugh. " There's two gills ot rum
for every man at twelve o'clock to-day, so says his
Excellency ; and two buttons for the coat of every
sergeant, and five for every captain. The English
up there in Quebec can't do better than that, can
they ? And will they ? No. Does a man spend
money on a hell's foe, unless he means to give it
*■«**■
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC I99
work to do ? Pish ! Is his Excellency like to hang
back because Monsieur De la Riviere says he'll
fetch the Government ? Bah ! The bully soldiers
would come with us as they went with the Great
Napoleon at Grenoble. Ah, that ! His Excellency
told me about that just now. Here stood the sol-
diers"— he mapped out the ground with his sword
— " here stood the Great Napoleon, all alone. He
looks straight before him. What does he see ?
Nothing less than a hundred muskets pointing at
him. What does he do ? He walks up to the
soldiers, opens his coat, and says : • Soldiers,
comrades, is there one of you will kill your em-
peror ? ' Damned if there was one. They dropped
their muskets, and took to kissing his hands.
There, my dears, that was the Great Emperor's
way, our emperor's father's little way."
"But suppose they fired at us 'stead of at his
Excellency } " asked the mealman.
"Then, mealman, you'd settle your account for
lightweights sooner than you want."
Duclosse twisted his mouth dubiously. He
was not sure how far his enthusiasm could carry
him. Muroc shook his shaggy head in mirth.
" Well, 'tis true we're getting off to France,"
said the limeburner. " We can drill as we travel,
and there's plenty of us for a start."
" Morrow we go," said Lajeunesse. " The
proclamation is to be out in an hour, and you're
all to be ready by ten o'clock in the morning.
His Excellency is to make a speech to us to-night ;
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200 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
then the general — ah, what a fine soldier, and
eighty years old ! — he's to give orders and make a
speech also : and I'm to be colonel " — he paused
dramatically — " and you three are for captains,
and you're to have five new yellow buttons to your
coats, like these." He drew out some gold coins
and jingled them. Every man got to his feet,
and Muroc let the coffee-tin fall. " There's to be
a grand review in the village this afternoon.
There's breakfast for you, my dears ! "
Their exclamations were interrupted by Lajeu-
nesse, who added : " And my Madelinette is to go
to Paris, after all, and Monsieur Parpon is to see
that she starts right."
Monsieur Parpon was a new title for the dwarf.
But the great comedy, so well played, had justi-
fied it.
" Oh, his Excellency '11 keep his word," said
the mealman. "I'd take ifelise Malboir's word
about a man for a million francs, was he prince or
ditcher ; and she says he's the greatest man in the
world. She knows."
"That reminds me," said Lajeunesse, gloomily,
"Elise has the black fever."
The mealman's face seemed to petrify, his eyes
stood out, the bread he had in his teeth dropped,
and he stared wildly at Lajeunesse. All were
occupied in watching him, and they did not see
the figure of a girl approaching.
Muroc, dumbfounded, spoke first : " 6lise — the
black fever !" he gasped, thoroughly awed.
%
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 20I
/(
e — the
"She is better, she will live," said a voice behind
Lajeunesse. It was Madelinette, who had come
early to the camp to cook her father's break-
fast.
Without a word the mealman turned, pulled
his clothes about him with a jerk, and, pale and
bewildered, started away at a run down the plateau.
" He's going to the village," said the charcoal-
man. •• He hasn't leave. That's court-mar-
tial ! "
Lajeunesse shook his head knowingly. " He's
never had but two ideas in his nut — meal and
]£lise ; let him go."
The mealman was soon lost to view, unheeding
the challenge that rang after him.
Lagroin had seen the fugitive from a distance,
and came down, inquiring. When he was told,
he swore that Duclosse should suffer divers pun-
ishments.
" A pretty kind of officer ! " he cried in a fury.
" Damn it, is there another man in my army would
do it ? "
No one answered, and because Lagroin was not
a wise man, he failed to see that in time his army
might be dissipated by such awkward incidents.
When Valmond was told, he listened with a better
understanding.
All Lajeunesse had announced came to pass.
The review and march and show were goodly,
after their kind, and by dint of money and wine
the enthusiasm was greater than ever it had been;
^/
f
a
202 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
for it was joined to the pathos of the expected de-
parture. The Cur6 and the avocat, kept within
doors ; for they had talked together, and now that
the day of fate was at hand, and sons, brothers,
fathers, were to go off on this far adventure, a new
spirit suddenly thrust itself in, and made them sad
and anxious. Monsieur De la Riviftre was gloomy ;
Medallion was the one comfortable, cool person
in the parish. It had been his conviction that
something would occur to stop the whole business
at the critical moment. He was a man of impres-
sions, and he lived in the light of them continu-
ously. Wisdom might have been looked for from
Parpon, but he had been won by Valmond from
the start, and now in the great hour he was
absorbed in another theme — the restoration of his
mother to himself, and to herself.
At seven o'clock in the evening Valmond and
Lagroin were in the streets, after they had marched
their men back to camp. A crowd had gathered
near the church, for his Excellency was on his
way to visit the Cur6.
As he passed they cheered him. He stopped to
speak to them. Before he had ended, some one
came crying wildly that the soldiers, the red-
coats, were come. The sound of a drum rolled
up the street, and presently, round a corner, came
the well-ordered troops of the Government.
Instantly Lagroin wheeled to summon any stray
men of his little army, but Valmond laid an
arresting hand on his arm. It would have been
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 203
the same in any case, for the people had scattered
like sheep, and stood apart.
They were close by the church steps. Valmond
mechanically saw the mealman, open-mouthed
and dazed, start forward from the crowd ; but,
hesitating, he drew back again almost instantly,
and was swallowed up in the safety of distance.
He smiled at the mealman 's hesitation, even while
he said to himself, " This ends it — ends it ! "
He said it with no great sinking of heart, with
no fear. It was the solution of all ; it was his only
way to honor.
The soldiers were halted a little distance from
the two ; and the officer commanding, after a pre-
amble, in the name of the Government formally
called upon Valmond and Lagroin to surrender
themselves, or suffer the perils of resistance.
" Never ! " broke out Lagroin, and drawing his
sword, he shouted, " Vive Napoleon ! The Old
Guard never surrenders !"
Then he made as if to rush forward on the
troops.
" Fire ! " called the officer.
Twenty rifles blazed out. Lagroin tottered, and
fell at the feet of his master.
Raising himself he clasped Valmond's knee, and
looking up, said gaspingly :
"Adieu, sire! I love you ; I die for you." His
head fell at his emperor's feet, though the hands
still clutched the knee.
Valmond stood over his body, and drew a pistol.
\x
( V
\
\ f
:w
I
ii
)
204 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
" Surrender, monsieur ! " said the officer, " or we
fire ! "
" Never ! A Napoleon knows how to die ! "
came the ringing reply, and he raised his pistol at
the officer.
"Fire ! " came the sharp command.
" Vive Napoleon /" cried the doomed man, and
fell, mortally wounded.
At that instant the Curd, with Medallion, came
hurrying round the corner of the church.
"Fools! Murderers!" he said to the soldiers.
*' Ah, these poor children ! "
Stooping, he lifted up Valmond's head, and
Medallion felt Lagroin's pulseless heart.
The officer picked up Valmon .'s pistol. A mo-
ment afterwards he looked at the dying man in
wonder, for he found that the weapon was not
loaded !
U'
<<
CHAPTER XVII
-How long. Chemist?"
"Two hours, perhaps."
" So long ? "
^^ After a moment he said dreamily : '< Jt is but a
The Little Chemist nodded, though he did not
understand. The Cur6 stooped over him
"A step, my son ? " he asked, thinking he spoke
ofthe voyage the soul takes.
"To the Tuileries." answered Valmond, and he
smded The Curb's brow clouded ; he wished to
direct the dymg man's thoughts elsewhere
nnH \' ? !""* ^ step-anywhere." he continued,
and looked towards the Little Chemist. •• Thank
you dear monsieur, thank you. There is a silver
night-lamp in my room ; I wish it to be yours
Adieu, my friend." ^
The Little Chemist tried to speak, but could not.
He stooped and kissed Valmond's hand, as though
he thought him still a prince, and not the impostor
which British rifles had declared him. To the end
the coterie would act according to the light of their
own eyes.
/ )
206 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
The Cur^ understood him at last. " The long-
est journey is short by the light of the grave," he
responded gently.
Presently the door opened, admitting the avocat.
Valmond calmly met Monsieur Garon's pained
look, and courteously whispered his name.
" Your Excellency has been basely treated," said
the avocat, his lip trembling.
" On the contrary, well, dear monsieur," an-
swered the ruined adventurer. " Destiny plays us
all. Think : I die the death of a soldier, and my
crusade was a soldier's vision of conquest. I have
paid the price. I have "
He did not finish the sentence, but lay lost in
thought. At last he spoke in a low tone to the
avocat, who quickly began writing at his dictation.
The chief clause of the record was a legacy of
ten thousand francs to " my faithful minister and
constant friend, Monsieur Parpon ; " another often
thousand to Madame Joan D^gardy, " whose skill
and care of me merits more than I can requite ; "
twenty thousand to the Church of St. Nazaire of
the parish of Pontiac ; five thousand to " the be-
loved Monsieur Fabre, curd of the same parish, to
whose good and charitable heart I come for my
last comforts ; " twenty thousand to " Mademoi-
selle Madelinette Lajeunesse, that she may learn
singing under the best masters in Paris." To
Madame Chalice he left all his personal effects,
ornaments, and relics, save a certain decoration
given the old sergeant, and a ring once worn by
I i
1,
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 207
long-
;," he
vocat.
pained
,," said
•," an-
lays us
nd my
I have
lost in
to the
:tation.
gacy of
ter and
pr often
se skill
quite ; "
Zaire of
le be-
rish, to
or my
,demoi-
y learn
To
effects,
oration
orn by
the Emperor Napoleon. These were for a gift to
" dear Monsieur Garon, who has honored me with
his distinguished friendship ; and I pray that our
mutual love for the same cause, may give me
some title to his remembrance."
Here the avocat stopped him with a quick, pro-
testing gesture.
" Your Excellency ! your Excellency!" he said
in a shaking voice, " my heart has been with the
man, as with the cause."
Other legacies were given to Medallion, to the
family of Lagroin, of whom he still spoke as " my
beloved general who died for me ; " and ten francs
to each recruit who had come to his standard.
After a long pause, he said lingeringly : " To
Mademoiselle ;6lise Malboir, the memory of whose
devotion and solicitude gives me joy in my last
hour, I bequeath fifty thousand francs. In the
event of her death, this shall revert to the parish
of Pontiac, in whose graveyard I wish my body to
lie. The balance of my estate, whatever it may
now be, or may prove to be hereafter, I leave to
Pierre Napoleon, third son of Lucien Bonaparte,
Prince of Canino, of whom I cherish a reverent
remembrance."
A few words more ended the will, and the name
of a bank in New York was given as agent. Then
there was silence in the room, and Valmond ap-
peared to sleep.
Presently the avocat, thinking that he might
wish to be alone with the Cur6, stepped quietly to
^A
r
»i
n i
\ lir V
If'
{'
208 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
the door, and opened it upon Madame Chalice.
She pressed his hand, her eyes full of tears, passed
inside the room, goinjj softly to a shadowed corner,
where she sat watching the passive figure on the
bed.
What were the thoughts of this man, now that
his adventure was over and his end near? If he
were in very truth a prince, how pitiable, how pal-
try ! What cheap martyrdom ! If an impostor,
had the game been worth the candle ? — Death
seemed a coin of high value for this short, van-
ished comedy. The man alone could answer, for
the truth might not be known save by the knowl-
edge that comes with the end of all.
She looked at the Cur^, where he knelt praying,
and wondered how much of this tragedy the
anxious priest would lay at his own door.
" It is no tragedy, dear Cur6," Valmond said
suddenly, as if following her thoughts.
" My son, it is all tragedy until you have shown
me your heart, that I may send you forth in
peace."
He had forgotten Madame Chalice's presence,
and she sat very still.
"Even for our dear Lagroin," Valmond con-
tinued, " it was no tragedy. He was fighting for
the cause, not for a poor fellow like me. As a
soldier loves to die, he died — in the dream of his
youth, sword in hand."
'• You loved the cause, my son ? " was the
troubled question. "You were all honest ? "
\[
lalice.
)assed
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 209
Valmond made as if he would rise on his elbow,
in excitement, but the Curd put him gently back.
•• From a child I loved it, dear Curd," was the
quick reply. " Listen, and I will tell you all my
story."
He composed himself, and his face took on a
warm light, giving it a pathetic look of happiness.
"The very first thing I remember was sitting on
the sands of the sea-shore, near some woman who
put her arms round me, and drew me to her heart.
I seem even to recall her face now, though I never
could before — do we see things clearer when we
come to die, I wonder ? I never saw her again.
I was brought up by my parents, who were humble
peasants, on an estate near Viterbo, in Italy. I
was taught in the schools, and I made friends
among my schoolfellows ; but that was all the
happiness I had ; for my parents were strict and
hard with me, and showed me no love. At twelve
I was taken to Rome, and there I entered the house
of Prince Lucien Bonaparte, as page. I was al-
ways near the person of his highness."
He paused, at sight of a sudden pain in the
Curd's face. Sighing, he continued :
'• I travelled with him to France, to Austria, to
England, where I learned to speak the language,
and read what the English wrote about the great
Napoleon. Their hatred angered me, and I began
to study what French and Italian books said of
him. I treasured up every scrap of knowledge I
could get. I listened to all that was said in the
14
/ )l
V
2IO WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
prince's palace, and I was glad when his highness
let me read aloud private papers to him. From
these I learned the secrets of the great family.
The prince was seldom gentle with me — some-
times almost brutal, yet he would scarcely let me
out of his sight. I had little intercourse then with
the other servants, and less still when I was old
enough to become a valet ; and a valet I was to
the prince for twelve years."
The Curb's hand clasped the arm of his chair,
nervously. His lips moved, but he said nothing
aloud, and he glanced quickly towards Madame
Chalice, who sat motionless, her face flushed, her
look fixed on Valmond. So, he was the mere im-
postor after all — a valet ! Fate had won the toss-
up ; not faith, or friendship, or any good thing.
" All these years," Valmond continued pres-
ently, his voice growing weaker, "I fed on such
food as is not often within the reach of valets.
I knew as much of the Bonapartes, of Napoleonic
history, as the prince himself ; so much so that he
often asked me of some date or fact of which he
was not sure. In time, I became almost like a
private secretary to him. I lived in a dream for
years ; for I had poetry, novels, paintings, music,
at my hand all the time, and the prince, at the
end, changed greatly, was affectionate indeed, and
said he would do good things for me. I became
familiar with all the intrigues, the designs of the
Bonapartes ; and what I did not know was told
me by Prince Pierre, who was near my own age.
I
if!
\
chair,
othing
adame
id, her
:re im-
e toss-
ng.
pres-
m such
valets,
ileonic
hat he
ich he
like a
m for
music,
at the
d, and
lecame
of the
s told
In age,
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 211
and who used me always more like a friend than
a servant.
" One day the prince was visited by Coiuit
Rcrtrand, who was with the Emperor in his exile,
and I heard him speak of a thing unknown to
history: that Napoleon had a son, born at St.
Helena, by a countess well known in Europe.
She had landed, disguised as a sailor, from a mer-
chant ship, and lived in retirement at Longwood,
for near a year. After the Emperor died the thing
was discovered, but the governor of the island
made no report of it to the British Government,
for that would have reflected on himself; and the
returned exiles kept the matter a secret. It was
said that the child died at St. Helena. The story
remained in my mind, and I brooded on it.
"Two years ago the prince died in my arms.
When he was gone, I found that I had been left
five hundred thousand francs, a chateau, and sev-
eral relics of the Bonapartes, as reward for my
services to the prince, and, as the will said, in
token of the love he had come to bear me. To
these Prince Pierre added a number of mementos.
I went to visit my parents, whom I had not seen
for many years. I found that my mother was
dead, that my father was a drunkard. Leaving
money for my father with the mayor, I sailed for
England. From England I came to New York ;
from New York to Quebec. All the time I was
restless, unhappy. I had had to work all my life,
now I had nothing to do. I had lived close to great
I
: y
V
I i
'H l»
212 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
traditions, now there was no habit of life to keep
them alive in me. I spent money freely, but it
gave me no pleasure. I once was a valet to a
great man, now I had the income of a gentleman,
and was no gentleman. Ah, do you not shrink
from me, Monsieur le Cur6 ? "
The Cur6 did not reply, but made a kindly ges-
ture, and Valmond continued :
" Sick of everything, one day I left Quebec hur-
riedly. Why I came here I do not know, save that
I had heard it was near the mountains, was quiet,
and I could be at peace. There was something in
me which could not be content in the foolishness of
idle life. All the time I kept thinking — thinking.
If I were only a Napoleon, how I would try to do
great things ! Ah, my God ! How I loved the
Great Napoleon ! What had the Bonapartes done ?
Nothing — nothing. Everything had slipped away
from them. Not one of them was like the Em-
peror. His own legitimate son was dead. None
of the others had the Master's blood, fire, daring
in his veins. The thought grew on me, and I used
to imagine myself his son. I loved his memory, all
he did, all he was, better than any son could do. It
had been my whole life, thinking of him and the
Empire, while I brushed the prince's clothes or
combed his hair. Why should such tastes be given
to a valet ? Some one somewhere was to blame,
dear Cur6.
" I really did not conceive or plan imposture. I
was only playing a comedian's part in front of the
; II 1 'ii
■V
fVC
to keep
y, but it
ilet to a
ntleman,
)t shrink
idly ges-
;bec hur-
save that
as quiet,
ething in
shness of
hi n king,
try to do
Dved the
ss done ?
sd away
the Em-
. None
J, daring
d I used
nory, all
ddo. It
and the
ithes or
36 given
blame,
ture. I
it of the
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 213
Louis Quinze, till I heard Parpon sing a verse of
'Vive Napoleon!' Then it all rushed on me,
captured me— and the rest you know."
The Cur«5 could not trust himself to speak yet.
" I had not thought to go so far when I began. It
was mostly a whim. But the idea gradually pos-
sessed me, and at last it seemed to me that I was
a real Napoleon. I used to wake from the dream
for a moment, and I tried to stop, but something in
my blood drove me on— inevitably. You were all
good to me ; you nearly all believed in me. Lagroin
came— and so it has gone on till now, till now. I
had a feeling what the end would be. But I should
have had my dream, I should have died for the
cause as no Napoleon or Bonaparte, ever died.
Like a man, I would pay the penalty Fate should
set. What more could I do ? If a man gives all he
has, is not that enough ? . . . There is my
whole story. Now I shall ask your pardon, dear
Cur^."
"You must ask pardon of God, my son," said
the priest, his looks showing the anguish he felt.
" The Little Chemist said two hours, but I feel "
—his voice got very faint—" I feel that he is mis-
taken."
The Cur^ made ready to read the office for the
dying. "My son," he said, "do you truly and
earnestly repent you of your sins } "
Valmond's eyes suddenly grew misty, his
breathing heavier. He scarcely seemed to com-
prehend.
'I;
214 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
" I have paid the price, I have loved you all —
Parpon — where are you ?— lillise ! "
A moment of silence, and then his voice rang
out with a sort of sob. " Ah, madame," he said
chokingly, " dear madame, for you I "
Madame Chalice arose with a little cry, for she
knew whom he meant, and her heart ached for
him : she forgot his imposture — everything.
" Ah, dear, dear monsieur ! " she said brokenly.
He knew her voice, he heard her coming ; his
eyes opened wide, and he raised himself on the
couch with a start. The effort loosened ♦ band-
age at his neck, and blood gushed out on his
bosom.
With a convulsive motion he drew up the cover-
let to his chin, to hide the red stream, and said
gaspingly :
" Pardon, madame."
Then a shudder passed through him, and with a
last effort to spare her the sight of his ensanguined
body, he fell face downward, voiceless forever.
The very earth seemed breathing. Long waves
of heat palpitated over the harvest fields, and the
din of the locust drove lazily through. The far
cry of the kingfisher, and the idly clacking wheels
of carts rolling down from Dalgrothe Mountain,
gave accent to the drowsy melody of the after-
noon. The wild mustard glowed so like a golden
carpet, that the destroying hand of the anxious
husbandman seemed of the blundering tyranny
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 215
Of labor: yet Fate, the sure-reaping farmer, was
this day mercilessly uprooting tares in the good
meadow of life. ^
Whole fields were flaunting with poppies, too
gay for sorrow to pass that way ; but a blind girl
ed by a little child, made a lane through the red
luxuriance, hurrying to the place where vanity
and valor, and the remnant of an unfulfilled man-
hood, lay beaten to death. Destiny, which is
stronger than human love or the soul's fidelity
had overmastered self-sacrifice and the heart of
woman This woman had opened her eyes upon
the world again, only to find it all night, all strange •
she was captive of a great darkness. '
As she broke through the hedge of lilacs by the
Curds house, the crowd of awe-stricken people fell
back, opening a path for her to the door. She
moved as one unconscious of the troubled life and
the vibrating world about her.
The hand of the child let her into the chamber
of death ; the door closed, and she stood motion-
less.
The Curd made as if to rise and go towards her.
but Madame Chalice, sitting sorrowful and dis-
mayed at the foot of the couch, by a motion of her
hand, stopped him.
The girl paused a moment, listening. " Mon-
sieur ' she said, leaning forward. It was as if a
soul leaned out of the casement of life, calling into
the dark, and the silence which may not be com-
prehended by mortal man.
2l6 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
" Monsieur — Valmond ! "
Her trembling hands were stretched out before
her yearningly. The Cur6 moved. She turned
towards the sound with a pitiful vagueness.
" Valmond, oh Valmond ! " she cried again be-
seechingly.
The cloak dropped from her shoulders, and the
loose robe enveloping her fell away from a bosom
that throbbed with the stifling passion of a great
despair.
Nothing but silence.
She moved to the wall like a little child feeling
its way, ran her hand along it, and touched a cru-
cifix. With a moan she pressed her lips to the
nailed feet, and came on gropingly to the couch.
She reached down towards it, but drew back as if
in affright ; for a dumb, desolating fear was upon
her.
But with that direful courage which is the last
gift to the hopeless, she stretched forth again,
and her fingers touched Valmond's cold hands.
They ran up his breast, to his neck, to his face,
and fondled it, as only life can fondle death,
out of that pitiful hunger which never can be
satisfied in this world ; and then moved with an
infinite tenderness to his eyes, now blind like
hers, and lingered there in the kinship of eternal
loss.
A low, anguished cry broke from ner :
" Valmond — my love ! my love ! " and she fell
forward upon the breast of her lost Napoleon.
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
217
When the people gathered again in the little
church upon the hill, Valmond and his great adven-
ture had become almost a legend, so soon are men
and events lost in the distance of death and ruin.
The Cur6 preached, as he had always done, with
a simple, practical solicitude ; but towards the end
of his brief sermon he paused, and, with a grave
tenderness of voice, said :
" My children, vanity is the bane of mankind ;
it destroys as many souls as self-sacrifice saves !
It is the constant temptation of the human heart.
I have ever warned you against it, as I myself
have prayed to be kept from its devices — alas ! at
times, how futilely ! Vanity leads to imposture,
and imposture to the wronging of others. But if
a man repent, and yield all he has, to pay the high
price of his bitter mistake, he may thereby redeem
himself even in this world. If he give his life, re-
penting, and if the giving stays the evil he might
have wrought, shall we be less merciful than God ?
" My children " (he did not mention Valmond's
name), "his last act was manly; his death was
beautiful ; his sin was forgiven. Those rifle bul-
lets that brought him down, let out all the evil in
his blood.
" We have, my people, been delivered from a
grave error. Forgetting — save for our souls' wel-
fare—the misery of this vanity which led us astray,
let us remember with gladness all of him that was
commendable in our eyes : his kindness, eloquence,
generous heart, courage, and love of Mother-
;i
218 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
Church. He lies in our graveyard ; he is ours ;
and, being ours, let us protect his memory, as
though he had not sought us a stranger, but was of
us : of our homes, as of our love, and of our sorrow.
" And so atoning for our sins, as did he, may we
at last come to the perfect pardon, and to peace
everlasting."
TIAC
le IS ours ;
nemory, as
, but was of
Dur sorrow,
he, may we
id to peace
Epilogue
I.
(EXTRACT FROM A LETTER WRITTEN BY MADAME
CHALICE TO MONSIEUR FABRE, CURE OF PON-
TIAC, TWO MONTHS AFTER VALMOND'S DEATH.)
" . . . And here, dear Cur^.you shall have
my justification for writing you two letters in one
week, though I would make the accident a habit
if I were sure it would more please you than per-
plex you.
" Prince Pierre, son of Prince Lucien Bonaparte,
arrived in New York two days ago, and yesterday
morning he came to the Atlantic Bank, and asked
for my husband. When he made known his busi-
ness, Harry sent for me that I might speak with
him.
" Dear Curd, hearts and instincts were right in
Pontiac : our unhappy friend Valmond was that
child of Napoleon, born at St. Helena, of whom he
himself spoke at his death in your home. His
mother was the Countess of Carnstadt. At the
beginning of an illness which followed Napoleon's
death, the child was taken from her by Prince
Lucien Bonaparte, and was brought up and edu-
m\
?'.■'
b *
220 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
cated as the son of poor peasants in Italy. No one
knew of his birth save the companions in exile of
the Great Emperor, All of them, with the excep-
tion of Count Bertrand, believed, as Valmond said,
that the child had died in infancy at St. Helena.
"Prince Lucien had sworn to the mother that he
would care personally for the child, and he fulfilled
his promise by making him a page in his house-
hold, and afterwards a valet — a base redemption
of the vow.
" But, even as Valmond drew our hearts to him,
so at last he won Prince Lucien's, as he had from
the first won Prince Pierre's.
"It was not until after Valmond's death, when re-
ceiving the residue of our poor friend's estate, that
Prince Pierre learned the truth from Count Ber-
trand. He immediately set sail for New York, and
next week he will secretly visit you, for love of the
dead man, and to thank you and our dear avocat,
together with all others who believed in and be-
friended his unfortunate kinsman.
" Ah, dear Curd, think of the irony of it all ! —
that a man be driven, by the very truth in his
blood, to that strangest of all impostures — to im-
personate himself ! He did it too well to be the
mere comedian. I felt that all the time. I shall
show his relics now with more pride than sorrow.
"Prince Pierre dines with us to-night. He looks
as if he had the Napoleonic daring — or rashness
— but I am sure he has not the good heart of our
Valmond Napoleon. . . ."
» i^'^.
WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC 221
II.
The haymakers paused and leaned upon their
forks, children left the strawberry vines and climbed
upon the fences, as the coach from the distant city
dashed down the street towards the four corners,
and the welcoming hotel, with its big dormer win^
dows and well-carved veranda. As it whirled by,
the driver shouted something at a stalwart forgeron!
standing at the doorway of his smithy, and he
passed it on to a loitering mealman and a lime-
burner.
A girl came slowly over the crest of a hill. Feel-
ing her way with a stick, she paused now and then
to draw in long breaths of sweet air from the
meadows, as if in the joy of Nature, she found a
balm for the cruelties of Destiny.
Presently a puff of smoke shot out from the hill-
side where she stood, and the sound of an old can-
non followed. From the Seigneury, far over, came
an answering report ; and tricolors ran fluttering
up on flag-staffs, at the four corners, and in the
Curb's garden.
The girl stood wondering, her fine, calm face
expressing the quick thoughts which had belonged
to eyes once so full of hope and blithe desire. The
serenity of her life— its charity, its truth, its cheerful
care for others, the confidence of the young which
it invited, showed in all the aspect of her. She
heard the flapping of the flag in the Curb's gar-
den, and turned her darkened eyes towards it. A
333 WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC
1(1
1^ ,'l
¥[
look of pain crossed her face, and a hand trembled
to her bosom, as if to ease a great throbbing of her
heart. These cannon shots and this shivering pen-
nant brought bacic a scene at the four corners,
eight years before.
Footsteps came over the hill : she knew them,
and turned.
'• Parpon ! " she said, with a glad gesture.
Without a word he placed in her hand a bunch
of violets that he carried. She lifted them to her
lips.
"What is it all?" she asked, turning again to
the tricolor.
" Louis Napoleon enters the Tuileries to-day,"
he answered.
" Ours was the son of the Great Emperor," she
said. " Let us be going, Parpon ; we will lay these
violets on his grave." She pressed the flowers to
her heart.
" France would have loved him, as did we," said
the dwarf, as they moved onward.
•' As do we," the blind girl answered softly.
Their figures against the setting sun took on a
strange burnished radiance, so that they seemed as
mystical pilgrims journeying into a golden haze,
which shut them out from view beyond the hill, as
the Angelus sounded from the tower of the ancient
church.
THE END.
M'!